Myth  and  Romance 

by  Mad      n  Cawein 


UC-NRLF 


LIBRARY 

OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 


Class 


Myth  and  Romance 

Being  a  Book  of  Verses 
BV  HftDISON  C7WEIN 


G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 
New   York  and  London 


.899 


COPYRIGHT,  1899 

BY 
MADISON  CAWEIN 


Ube  fmicfeerbocher  press,  Hew  florfc 


TO 

MY  FRIEND 
WILLIAM  WARWICK  THUM 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

VISIONS  AND  VOICES 

Myth  and  Romance 3 

Genius  Loci 4 

The  Rain-Crow 6 

The  Harvest  Moon 8 

The  Old  Water-Mill 9 

Anthem  of  Dawn 13 

Dithyrambics 15 

Hymn  to  Desire 18 

Music 21 

Jotunheim 22 

Dionysia 25 

The  Last  Song 29 

Romaunt  of  the  Oak 30 

Morgan  le  Fay 33 

The  Dream  of  Roderick 35 

Zyps  of  Zirl  .  , 38 

The  Glowworm 41 

Ghosts 43 

The  Purple  Valleys 44 

The  Land  of  Illusion 45 

Spirit  of  Dreams 49 

LINES  AND  LYRICS 

To  a  Wind-Flower 53 

Microcosm 53 

Fortune 54 

Death 54 


PAGE 

The  Soul 55 

Conscience 55 

Youth 56 

Life's  Seasons 57 

Old  Homes 58 

Field  and  Forest  Call 59 

Meeting  in  Summer 60 

Swinging 6l 

Rosemary 62 

Ghost  Stories 63 

Dolce  far  Niente 64 

Words 66 

Reasons 67 

Evasion 67 

In  May 68 

Will  you  Forget  ? 69 

Clouds  of  the  Autumn  Night      ....  70 

The  Glory  and  the  Dream 71 

Snow  and  Fire 71 

Restraint 72 

Why  Should  I  Pine  ? 72 

When  Lydia  Smiles 73 

The  Rose 74 

A  Ballad  of  Sweethearts 74 

Her  Portrait 75 

A  Song  for  Yule 7° 

The  Puritans'  Christmas 77 

Spring 79 

Lines 79 

When  Ships  put  out  to  Sea 80 

The  "  Kentucky  " 81 

Quatrains 82 

Processional 84 


PROEM. 

There  is  no  rhyme  that  is  half  so  'sweet 
As  the  song  of  the  wind  in  the  rippling  wheat ; 
There  is  no  metre  that 's  half  so  fine 
As  the  lilt  of  the  brook  under  rock  and  vine  ; 
And  the  loveliest  lyric  I  ever  heard 
Was  the  wild  wood  strain  of  a  forest  bird. — 
If  the  wind  and  the  brook  and  the  bird  would  teach 
My  heart  their  beautiful  parts  of  speech, 
And  the  natural  art  that  they  say  these  with, 
My  soul  would  sing  of  beauty  and  myth 
In  a  rhyme  and  a  metre  that  none  before 
Have  sung  in  their  love,  or  dreamed  in  their  lore, 
And  the  world  would  be  richer  one  poet  the  more. 


VISIONS  AND  VOICES 


Myth  and 
Romance 


"IWHEN  I  go  forth  to  greet  the  glad-faced  Spring, 
Just  at  the  time  of  opening  apple-buds,       •" 

When  brooks  are  laughing,  winds  are  whispering, 
On  babbling  hillsides  or  in  warbling  woods, 
There  is  an  unseen  presence  that  eludes  : — 

Perhaps  a  Dryad,  in  whose  tresses  cling 
The  loamy  odors  of  old  solitudes, 

Who,  from  her  beechen  doorway,  calls  ;  and  leads 
My  soul  to  follow  ;    now  with  dimpling  words 
Of  leaves  ;   and  now  with  syllables  of  birds  ; 

While  here  and  there — is  it  her  limbs  that  swing  ? 

Or  restless  sunlight  on  the  moss  and  weeds  ? 

II 

Or,  haply,  't  is  a  Naiad  now  who  slips, 

Like  some  white  lily,  from  her  fountain's  glass, 

While  from  her  dripping  hair  and  breasts  and  hips, 
The  moisture  rains  cool  music  on  the  grass. 
Her  have  I  heard  and  followed,  yet,  alas  ! 

Have  seen  no  more  than  the  wet  ray  that  dips 
The  shivered  waters,  wrinkling'where' I  passT 

But,  in  the  liquid  light,  where  she  doth  hide, 
I  have  beheld  the  azure  of  her  gaze 
Smiling  ;   and,  where  the  orbing  ripple  plays, 

Among  her  minnows  I  have  heard  her  lips, 

Bubbling,  make  merry  by  the  waterside. 

Ill 

Or  now  it  is  an  Oread — whose  eyes 

Are  constellated  dusk — who  stands  confessed, 
As  naked  as  a  flow'r  ;   her  heart's  surprise, 


Like   morning's    rose,    mantling    her  brow   and 
breast : 

She,  shrinking  from  my  presence,  all  distressed 
Stands  for  a  startled  moment  ere  she  flies, 

Her  deep  hair  blowing,  up  the  mountain  crest, 
Wild  as  a  mist  that  trails  along  the  dawn. 

And  is  't  her  footfalls  lure  me  ?  or  the  sound 

Of  airs  that  stir  the  crisp  leaf  on  the  ground  ? 
And  is  't  her  body  glimmers  on  yon  rise  ? 
Or  dog-wood  blossoms  snowing  on  the  lawn  ? 

IV 

Now  't  i§_a  Satyr  piping  serenades 

On  a  slim  reed.     Now  Pan  and  Faun  advance 
Beneath  green-hollowed  roofs  of  forest  glades, 

Their  feet  gone   mad   with    music :    now,   per 
chance, 

Sylvanus  sleeping,  on  whose  leafy  trance 
The  Nymphs  stancTgazing  in  dim  ambuscades 

Of  sun-embodied  perfume. — Myth,  Romance, 
Where'er  I  turn,  reach  out  bewildering  arms, 

Compelling  me  to  follow.     Day  and  night 

I  hear  their  voices  and  behold  the  light 
Of  their  divinity  that  still  evades, 
And  still  allures  me  in  a  thousand  forms. 

Genius 
Loci 

I 

"1 17 HAT  wood-god,  on  this  water's  mossy  curb, 

Lost  in  reflections  of  earth's  loveliness, 
Did  I,  just  now,  unconsciously  disturb? 

I,  who  haphazard,  wandering  at  a  guess, 
Came  on  this  spot,  wherein,  with  gold  and  flame 
Of  buds  and  blooms,  the  season  writes  its  name. — 


Ah,  me  !  could  I  have  seen  him  ere  alarm 
Of  my  approach  aroused  him  from  his  calm  ! 
As  he,  part  Hamadryad  and,  mayhap, 

Part  Faun,  lay  here  ;  who  left  the  shadow  warm 
As  wild-wood  rose,  and  filled  the  air  with  balm 
Of  his  sweet  breath  as  with  ethereal  sap. 


II 


Does  not  the  moss  retain  some  vague  impress, 
Green  dented  in,  of  where  he  lay  or  trod  ? 

Do  not  the  flow'rs,  so  reticent,  confess 
With  conscious  looks  the  contact  of  a  god  ? 

Does  not  the  very  water  garrulously 

Boast  the  indulgence  of  a  deity  ? 

And,  hark  !  in  burly  beech  and  sycamore 

How  all  the  birds  proclaim  it  !  and  the  leaves 
Rejoice  with  clappings  of  their  myriad  hands  ! 

And  shall  not  I  believe,  too,  and  adore, 
With   such   wide  proof  ? — Yea,  though   my  soul 

perceives 
No  evident  presence,  still  it  understands. 


Ill 


And  for  a  while  it  moves  me  to  lie  down 
Here  on  the  spot  his  god-head  sanctified  : 

Mayhap    some    dream    he    dreamed    may  lingert 

brown 
And  young  as  joy,  around  the  forestside  ; 

Some  dream  within  whose  heart  lives  no  disdain 

For  such  as  I  whose  love  is  sweet  and  sane  ; 

That  may  repeat,  so  none  but  I  may  hear — 
As  one  might  tell  a  pearl-strung  rosary — 
Some  epic  that  the  trees  have  learned  to  croon, 

5 


Some  lyric  whispered  in  the  wild-flower's  ear, 
Whose   murmurous  lines  are   sung  by  bird  and 

bee, 
And  all  the  insects  orthe  night  and  noon. 


IV 


For,  all  around  me,  upon  field  and  hill, 
Enchantment  lies  as  of  mysterious  flutes  ; 

As  if  the  music  of  a  god's  good-will 
Had  taken  on  material  attributes 

In  blooms,  like  chords  ;  and  in  the  water-gleam, 

That  runs  its  silvery  scales  from  stream  to  stream  ; 

In  sunbeam  bars,  up  which  the  butterfly, 
A  golden  note,  vibrates  then  flutters  on — 
Inaudible  tunes,  blown  on  the  pipes  of  Pan, 

That  have  assumed  a  visible  entity, 

And  drugged  the  air  with  beauty  so,  a  Faun, 
Behold,  I  seem,  and  am  no  more  a  man. 

The 

Rain-  Crow 

I 

/^AN    freckled    August,  —  drowsing    warm   and 

^        blonde 

Beside  a  wheat-shock  in  the  white-topped  mead, 

In  her  hot  hair  the  oxeyed  daisies  wound, — 
O  bird  of  rain,  lend  aught  but  sleepy  heed 
To   thee  ?   when  no  plumed  weed,  no  feather'd 
seed 

Blows  by  her  ;  and  no  ripple  breaks  the  pond, 
That  gleams  like  flint  between  its  rim  of  grasses, 
Through  which  the  dragonfly  forever  passes 
Like  splintered  diamond. 


II 

Drouth  weights  the  trees,  and  from  the  farmhouse 

eaves 

The  locust,  pulse-beat  of  the  summer  day, 
Throbs  ;  and  the  lane,  that  shambles  under  leaves 
Limp  with  the  heat — a  league  of  rutty  way — 
Is  lost  in  dust  ;  and  sultry  scents  of  hay 
Breathe   from   the  panting  meadows  heaped  with 

sheaves — 

Now,  now,  O  bird,  what  hint  is  there  of  rain, 
In  thirsty  heaven  or  on  burning  plain, 

That  thy  keen  eye  perceives  ? 

Ill 

But  thou  art  right.     Thou  prophesiest  true. 
For  hardly  hast  thou  ceased  thy  forecasting, 

When,  up  the  western  fierceness  of  scorched  blue, 
Great  water-carrier  winds  their  buckets  bring 
Brimming  with   freshness.      How  their  dippers 
ring 

And  flash  and  rumble  !  lavishing  dark  dew 
On  corn  and  forestland,  that,  streaming  wet, 
Their  hilly  backs  against  the  downpour  set, 
Like  giants  vague  in  view. 

IV 

The  butterfly,  safe  under  leaf  and  flower, 

Has  found  a  roof,  knowing  how  true  thou  art  ; 

The  bumble-bee,  within  the  last  half-hour, 
Has  ceased  to  hug  the  honey  to  its  heart ; 
While  in  the  barnyard,  under  shed  and  cart, 

Brood-hens  have  housed. — But  I,  who  scorned  thy 

power, 

Barometer  of  the  birds, — like  August  there, — 
Beneath  a  beech,  dripping  from  foot  to  hair, 
Like  some  drenched  truant,  cower. 


The 
Harvest  Moon 

I 

/^LOBED    in  Heav'n's    tree  of    azure,   golden 
^"^  mellow 

As  some  round  apple  hung 
High  in  hesperian  boughs,  thou  hangest  yellow 

The  branch-like  mists  among  : 
Within  thy  light  a  sunburnt  youth,  named  Health, 

Rests  'mid  the  tasseled  shocks,  the  tawny  stubble  ; 
And  by  his  side,  clad  on  with  rustic  wealth 

Of  field  and  farm,  beneath  thy  amber  bubble, 
A  nut-brown  maid,  Content,  sits  smiling  still : 

While  through  the  quiet  trees, 

The  mossy  rocks,  the  grassy  hill, 
Thy  silvery  spirit  glides  to  yonder  mill, 

Around  whose  wheel  the  breeze 
And  shimmering  ripples  of  the  water  play, 
As,  by  their  mother,  little  children  may. 

II 

Sweet  spirit  of  the  moon,  who  walkest, — lifting 

Exhaustless  on  thy  arm, 
A  pearly  vase  of  fire, — through  the  shifting 

Cloud-halls  of  calm  and  storm, 
Pour  down  thy  blossoms  !  let  me  hear  them  come, 

Pelting  with  noiseless  light  the  twinkling  thickets, 
Making  the  darkness  audible  with  the  hum 

Of  many  insect  creatures,  grigs  and  crickets  : 
Until  it  seems  the  elves  hold  revelries 

By  haunted  stream  and  grove  ; 

Or,  in  the  night's  deep  peace, 
The  young-old  presence  of  Earth's  full  increase 

Seems  telling  thee  her  love, 
Ere,  lying  down,  she  turns  to  rest,  and  smiles, 
Hearing  thy  heart  beat  through  the  myriad  miles. 


The  Old 

Water-Mill 

\  1TILD  ridge  on  ridge  the  wooded  hills  arise, 

*  *       Between  whose  breezy  vistas  gulfs  of  skies 
Pilot  great  clouds  like  towering  argosies, 
And  hawk  and  buzzard  breast  the  azure  breeze. 
With  many  a  foaming  fall  and  glimmering  reach 
Of  placid  murmur,  under  elm  and  beech, 
The  creek  goes  twinkling  through  long  glows  and 

glooms 

Of  woodland  quiet,  poppied  with  perfumes  : 
The  creek,  in  whose  clear  shallows  minnow-schools 
Glitter  or  dart ;  and  by  whose  deeper  pools   - 
The  blue  kingfishers  and  the  herons  haunt  ;~ 
That,  often  startled  from  the  freckled  flaunt  - 
Of  blackberry-lilies — where  they  feed  and  hide- 
Trail  a  lank  flight  along  the  forestside 
With  eery  clangor.     Here  a  sycamore, 
Smooth,  wave-uprooted,  builds  from  shore  to  shore 
A  headlong  bridge  ;  and  there,  a  storm-hurled  oak 
Lays  a  long  dam,  where  sand  and  gravel  choke 
The  water's  lazy  way.     Here  mistflower  blurs 
Its  bit  of  heaven  ;  there  the  oxeye  stirs 
Its  gloaming  hues  of  bronze  and  gold  ;  and  here, 
A  gray  cool  stain,  like  dawn's  own  atmosphere, 
The  dim  wild-carrot  lifts  its  crumpled  crest  : 
And  over  all,  at  slender  flight  or  rest, 
The  dragon-flies,  like  coruscating  rays 
Of  lapis-lazuli  and  chrysoprase, 
Drowsily  sparkle  through  the  summer  days  ; 
And,  dewlap-deep,  here  from  the  noontide  heat 
The  bell-hung  cattle  find  a  cool  retreat  : 
And  through  the  willows  girdling  the  hill, 
Now  far,  now  near,  borne  as  the  soft  winds  will, 
Comes  the  low  rushing  of  the  water-mill. 


Ah,  lovely  to  me  from  a  little  child, 

How  changed  the  place  !  wherein  once,  undefiled, 

The  glad  communion  of  the  sky  and  stream 

Went  with  me  like  a  presence  and  a  dream. 

Where  once  the  brambled  meads  and  orchardlands 

Poured  ripe  abundance  down  with  mellow  hands 

Of  summer  ;  and  the  birds  of  field  and  wood 

Called  to  me  in  a  tongue  I  understood  ; 

And  in  the  tangles  of  the  old  rail-fence 

Even  the  insect  tumult  had  some  sense, 

And  every  sound  a  happy  eloquence  ; 

And  more  to  me  than  wisest  books  can  teach, 

The  wind  and  water  said  ;  whose  words  did  reach 

My  soul,  addressing  their  magnificent  speech, 

Raucous  and  rushing,  from  the  old  mill-wheel, 

That  made  the  rolling  mill-cogs  snore  and  reel, 

Like  some  old  ogre  in  a  fairy-tale 

Nodding  above  his  meat  and  mug  of  ale. 

How  memory  takes  me  back  the  ways  that  lead — 
As  when    a   boy— through  woodland  and  through 

mead  ! 

To  orchards  fruited  ;  or  to  fields  in  bloom  ; 
Or  briary  fallows,  like  a  mighty  room, 
Through    which     the     winds     swing     censers    of 

perfume, 

And  where  deep  blackberries  spread  miles  of  fruit  ; — 
A  splendid  feast,  that  stayed  the  ploughboy's  foot 
When  to  the  tasseling  acres  of  the  corn 
He  drove  his  team,  fresh  in  the  primrose  morn  ; 
And  from  the  liberal  banquet,  nature  lent, 
Took  dewy  handfuls  as  he  whistling  went. — 
A  boy  once  more  I  stand  with  sunburnt  feet 
And  watch  the  harvester  sweep  down  the  wheat ; 
Or  laze  with  warm  limbs  in  the  unstacked  straw 

10 


Nearby  the  thresher,  whose  insatiate  maw 
Devours  the  sheaves,  hot  drawling  out  its  hum — 
Like  some  great  sleepy  bee,  above  a  bloom, 
Made   drunk  with  honey — while,  grown   big  with 

grain, 

The  bulging  sacks^ receive  the  golden  rain. 
Again  I  tread  the  valley,  sweet  with  hay, 
And  hear  the  bob-white  calling  far  away, 
Or  wood-dove  cooing  in  the  elder-brake  ; 
Or  see  the  sassafras  bushes  madly  shake 
As  swift,  a  rufous  instant,  in  the  glen 
The  red-fox  leaps  and  gallops  to  his  den  ; 
Or,  standing  in  the  violet-colored  gloam, 
Hear  roadways  sound  with  holiday  riding  home 
From  church,  or  fair,  or  bounteous  barbecue, 
Which  the  whole  country  to  some  village  drew. 

How  spilled  with  berries  were  its  summer  hills, 
And  strewn  with  walnuts  were  its  autumn  rills — 
And   chestnut    burs  !    fruit   of    the    spring's   long 

flowers, 
When  from  their  tops  the  trees  seemed  streaming 

showers 

Of  slender  silver,  cool,  crepuscular, 
And  like  a  nebulous  radiance  shone  afar. 
And  maples  !  how  their  sappy  hearts  would  gush 
Broad  troughs  of  syrup,  when  the  winter  bush 
Steamed  with  the  sugar-kettle,  day  and  night, 
And  all  the  snow  was  streaked  with  firelight. 
Then  it  was  glorious  !  the  mill-dam's  edge, 
One  slant  of  frosty  crystal,  laid  a  ledge 
Of  pearl  across  ;  above  which,  sleeted  trees 
Tossed  arms  of  ice,  that,  clashing  in  the  breeze, 
Tinkled  the  ringing  creek  with  icicles, 
Thin  as  the  peal  of  Elfland's  Sabbath  bells  : 

ii 


A  sound  that  in  my  city  dreams  I  hear, 
That  brings  before  me,  under  skies  that  clear, 
The  old  mill  in  its  winter  garb  of  snow, 
Its  frozen  wheel,  a  great  hoar  beard  below, 
And  its  West  windows,  two  deep  eyes  aglow. 

Ah,  ancient  mill,  still  do  I  picture  o'er 

Thy  cobwebbed  stairs  and    loft  and  grain-strewn 

floor; 

Thy  door, — like  some  brown,  honest  hand  of  toil, 
And  honorable  with  labor  of  the  soil, — 
Forever  open  ;  through  which,  on  his  back 
The  prosperous  farmer  bears  his  bursting  sack. 
And  while  the  miller  measures  out  his  toll, 
Again  I  hear,  above  the  cogs'  loud  roll, — 
That  makes  stout  joist  and  rafter  groan  and  sway, — 
The  harmless  gossip  of  the  passing  day  : 
Good  country  talk,  that  tells  how  so-and-so 
Has  died  or  married  ;   how  curculio 
And  codling-moth  have  ruined  half  the  fruit, 
And  blight  plays  mischief  with  the  grapes  to  boot ; 
Or  what  the  news  from  town  ;  next  county  fair  ; 
How  well  the  crops  are  looking  everywhere  : 
Now  this,  now  that,  on  which  their  interests  fix, 
Prospects  for  rain  or  frost,  and  politics. 
While,  all  around,  the  sweet  smell  of  the  meal 
Filters,  warm-pouring  from  the  grinding  wheel 
Into  the  bin  ;  beside  which,  mealy  white, 
The  miller  looms,  dim  in  the  dusty  light. 

Again  I  see  the  miller's  home,  between 

The  crinkling  creek  and  hills  of  beechen  green  : 

Again  the  miller  greets  me,  gaunt  and  brown, 

Who  oft  o'erawed  me  with  his  gray-browed  frown 

And  rugged  mien  :  again  he  tries  to  reach 

My  youthful  mind  with  fervid  scriptural  speech. — 

12 


For  he,  of  all  the  country-side  confessed, 

The  most  religious  was  and  happiest  ; 

A  Methodist,  and  one  whom  faith  still  led, 

No  books  except  the  Bible  had  he  read — 

At  least  so  seemed  it  to  my  younger  head. — 

All  things  in  earth  and  heav'n  he'd  prove  by  this, 

Be  it  a  fact  or  mere  hypothesis  ; 

For  to  his  simple  wisdom,  reverent, 

"  The  Bible  says"  was  all  of  argument. — 

God  keep  his  soul  !  his  bones  were  long  since  laid 

Among  the  sunken  gravestones  in  the  shade 

Of  those  black-lichened  rocks,  that  wall  around 

The  family  burying-ground  with  cedars  crowned  ; 

Where  bristling  teasel  and  the  brier  combine 

With  clambering  wood-rose  and  the  wild-grape  vine 

To  hide  the  stone  whereon  his  name  and  dates 

Neglect,  with  mossy  hand,  obliterates. 


Anthem 
of  Dawn 


'"PHEN  up  the  orient  heights  to  the  zenith,  that 
•*•"""  balanced  the  crescent,' — 
Up    and    far    up    and    over, — the    heaven    grew 

erubescent, 
Vibrant  with  rose  and  with  ruby  from  the  hands  of 

the  harpist  Dawn, 

Smiting  symphonic  fire  on  the  firmament's  barbiton  : 
And  the  East  was  a  priest  who  adored  with  offerings 

of  gold  and  of  gems, 
And  a  wonderful  carpet  unrolled  for  the  inaccessible 

hems 

13 


Of  the  glistening  robes  of  her  limbs  ;  that,  lily  and 

amethyst, 
Swept  glorying  on  and  on  through  temples  of  cloud 

and  mist. 

II 

Then  out  of  the  splendor  and  richness,  that  burned 

like  a  magic  stone, 
The  torrent  suffusion  that   deepened  and  dazzlecT 

and  broadened  and  shone, 
The  pomp  and  the  pageant   of   color,    triumphal 

procession  of  glare, 
The  sun,  like  a  king  in  armor,  breathing  splendor 

from  feet  to  hair, 
Stood  forth  with  majesty  girdled,  as  a  hero  who 

towers  afar 
Where  the  bannered  gates  are  bristling  hells  and 

the  walls  are  roaring  war  : 
And   broad   on    the   back    of    the    world,    like    a 

Cherubin's  fiery  blade, 
The  effulgent  gaze  of  his  aspect  fell  in  glittering 

accolade. 

Ill 

Then  billowing  blue,  like  an  ocean,  rolled  from  the 
shores  of  morn  to  even  : 

And  the  stars,  like  rafts,  went  down  :  and  the 
moon,  like  a  ghost-ship,  driven, 

A  feather  of  foam,  from  port  to  port  of  the  cloud- 
built  isles  that  dotted, 

With  pearl  and  cameo,  bays  of  the  day,  her 
canvas  webbed  and  rotted, 

Lay  lost  in  the  gulf  of  heaven  :  while  over  her 
mixed  and  melted 

The  beautiful  children  of  Morn,  whose  bodies  are 
opal-belted  ; 

14 


The  beautiful  daughters  of  Dawn,  who,  over  and 

under  and  after 
The   rivered   radiance,    wrestled  ;    and   rainbowed 

heaven  with  laughter 
Of    halcyon    sapphire.  —  O    Dawn !    thou   visible 

mirth, 
And  hallelujah  of  Heaven  !  hosanna  of  Earth  ! 


Dithyram  bics 


TEMPEST 

~\17"RAPPED  round  of  the  night,  as  a  monster  is 

wrapped  of  the  ocean, 
Down,    down   through    vast    storeys  of    cfarkness, 

behold,  in  the  tower 
Of  the  heaven,  the  thunder  !  on  stairways  of  cloudy 

commotion, 
Colossal  of  tread,  like  a  giant,  from  echoing  hour 

to  hour 

Goes  striding  in  rattling  armor  .   .  . 
The  Nymph,  at  her  billow-roofed  dormer 
Of  foam  ;    and  the  Sylvan — green-housed — at   her 

window  of  leaves  appears  ; 
— As  a  listening  woman,  who  hears 
The  approach  of  her  lover,  who  comes  to  her  arms 

in  the  night ; 

And,  loosening  the  loops  of  her  locks,   \ 
With  eyes  full  of  love  and  delight,  ji 

From   the   couch   of   her  rest   in  ardor  and  haste 

arises. — 
The  Nymph,   as  if  breathed  of  the  tempest,  like 

fire  surprises 

15 


The  riotous  bands  of  the  rocks, 

That  face  with  a  roar  the  shouting  charge  of  the  seas. 

The  Sylvan, — through  troops  of  the  trees, 

Whose  clamorous  clans  with  gnarly  bosoms  keep 
hurling 

Themselves  on  the  guns  of  the  wind, — goes  wheeling 
and  whirling. 

The  Nymph,  of  the  waves'  exultation  upheld,  her 
green  tresses 

Knotted  with  flowers  of  the  hollow  white  foam, 
dives  screaming  ; 

Then  bounds  to  the  arms  of  the  storm,  who  boister 
ously  presses 

Her  hair  and  wild  form  to  his  breast  that  is  panting 
and  streaming. 

The  Sylvan, — hard-pressed[by  the  wind,  the  Pan- 
footed  air, — 

On  the  violent  backs  of  the  hills, — 

Like  a  flame  that  tosses  and  thrills 

From  peak  to  peak  when  the  world  of  spirits  is  out, — 

Is  borne,  as  her  rapture  wills, 

With  glittering  gesture  and  shout : 

Now  here  in  the  darkness,  now  there, 

From  the  rain-like  sweep  of  her  hair, — 

Bewilderingly  volleyed  o'er  eyes  and  o'er  lips, — 

To  the  lambent  swell  of  her  limbs,  her  breasts  and 
her  hips, 

She  flashes  her  beautiful  nakedness  out  in  the  glare 

Of  the  tempest  that  bears  her  away, — 

That  bears  me  away  ! 

Away,  over  forest  and  foam,  over  tree  and  spray, 

Far  swifter  than  thought,  far  swifter  than  sound 
or  than  flame, 

Over  ocean  and  pine, 

In  arms  of  tumultuous'shadow  and  shine  .  .  . 


16 


Though  Sylvan  and  Nymph  do  not 
Exist,  and  only  what 
Of  terror  and  beauty  I  feel  and  I  name 
As  parts  of    the  storm,  the  .awe  and  the  rapture 
divine 

That  here  in  the  tempest  are  mine, 

The  two  are  the  same,  the  two  are  forever  the  same. 

II 
CALM 

Beautiful-bosomed,  O  night,  in  thy  noon 

Move  with  majesty  onward  !  bearing,  as  lightly 

As  a  singer  may  bear  the  notes  of  an  exquisite  tune, 

The  stars  and  the  moon 

Through  the  clerestories  high  of  the  heaven,   the 

firmament's  halls  ; 
Under  whose  sapphirine  walls, 
June,  hesperian  June, 

Robed  in  divinity  wanders.     Daily  and  nightly 
The  turquoise  touch  of  her  robe,  that  the  violets 

star, 

The  silvery  fall  of  her  feet,  that  lilies  are, 
Fill  the  land  with  languorous  light  and  perfume. — 
Is  it  the  melody  mute  of  burgeoning  leaf  and  of 

bloom  ? 
The  music  of  Nature,   that  silently  shapes  in  the 

gloom 

Immaterial  hosts 
Of  spirits  that  have  the  flowers  and  leaves  in  their 

keep, 

That  I  hear,  that  I  hear  ? 
Invisible  ghosts, — 
Who  whisper  in  leaves  and  glimmer  in  blossoms 

and  hover 

17 


In  color  and  fragrance  and  loveliness,  breathed 
from  the  deep 

World-soul  of  the  mother, 

Nature  ; — who,  over  and  over, 

Both  sweetheart  and  lover, 

Goes  singing  her  songs  from  one  sweet  month  to 
the  other, — 

That  appear,  that  appear  ? 

In  forest  and  field,  on  hill-land  and  lea, 

As  crystallized  harmony, 

Materialized  melody, 

An  uttered  essence  peopling  far  and  near 

The  hyaline  atmosphere  ?  .   .   . 

Behold  how  it  sprouts  from  the  grass  and  blooms 
from  flower  and  tree  ! 

In  waves  of  diaphanous  moonlight  and  mist, 

In  fugue  upon  fugue  of  gold  and  of  amethyst, 

Around  me,  above  me  it  spirals  ;  now  slower,  now- 
faster, 

Like  symphonies  born  of  the  thought  of  a  musical 
master. — 

—  O  music  of  Earth  !  O  God  who  the  music 
inspired  ! 

Let  me  breathe  of  the  life  of  thy  breath  ! 

And  so  be  fulfilled  and  attired 

In  resurrection,  triumphant  o'er  time  and  o'er  death  ! 


Hymn  to 
Desire 

I 

OTHER  of    visions,  with  lineaments  dulcet 

as  numbers 

Breathed    on  the   eyelids  of   love   by  music   that 
slumbers, 

18 


Secretly,  sweetly,  O  presence  of  fire  and  snow, 

Thou  comest  mysterious, 

In  beauty  imperious, 

Clad  on  with  dreams  and  the  light  of  no  world  that 

we  know. 

Deep  to  my  innermost  soul  am  I  shaken, 
Helplessly  shaken  and  tossed, 
And  of  thy  tyrannous  yearnings  so  utterly  taken, 
My  lips,  unsatisfied,  thirst ; 
Mine  eyes  are  accurst 
With  longings  for  visions  that  far  in  the  night  are 

forsaken  ; 

And  mine  ears,  in  listening  lost, 
Yearn,   yearn   for  the   note  of  a   chord   that   will 

never  awaken. 


II 


Like  palpable  music  thou  comest,  like  moonlight  ; 

and  far, — 

Resonant  bar  upon  bar., — 
The  vibrating  lyre 

Of  the  spirit  responds~*with  melodious  fire, 
As  thy  fluttering  fingers  now  grasp  it  and  ardently 

shake, 

With  flame  and  with  flake, 

The  chords  of  existence,  the  instrument  star-sprung, 
Wrhose  frame   is  of   clay,  so  wonderfully   molded 

from  mire. 

Ill 

Vested  with  vanquishment,  come,  O  Desire,  Desire  ! 
Breathe  in  this  harp  of  my  soul  the  audible  angel 

of  love  ! 
Make  of  my  heart  an  Israfel  burning  above, 

19 


A  lute  for  the  music  of  God,  that  lips,  which  are 

mortal,  but  stammer  ! 
Smite  every  rapturous  wire 

With  golden  delirium,  rebellion  and  silvery  clamor, 
Crying — "  Awake  !  awake  ! 
Too  long  hast  thou  slumbered  !  too  far  from  the 

regions  of  glamour, 
With  its  mountains  of  magic,  its  fountains  of  Faery, 

the  spar-sprung, 

Hast  thou  wandered  away,  O  Heart  ! 
Come,  oh,  come  and  partake 
Of  necromance  banquets  of  beauty  ;  and  slake 
Thy  thirst  in  the  waters  of  art, 
That  are  drawn  from  the  streams 
Of  love  and  of  dreams. 

IV 

"  Come,  oh,  come  ! 

No  longer  shall  language  be  dumb  ! 

Thy  vision  shall  grasp — 

As  one  doth  the  glittering  hasp 

Of  a  dagger  made  splendid  with  gems  and  with 

gold— 
The  wonder  and  richness  of  life,  not  anguish  and 

hate  of  it  merely. 
And  out  of  the  stark 
Eternity,  awful  and  dark, 
Immensity  silent  and  cold, — 

Universe-shaking  as  trumpets,  or  thunderous  metals 
That  cymbal  ;  yet  pensive  and  pearly 
And  soft  as  the  rosy  unfolding  of  petals, 
Or  crumbling  aroma  of    blossoms  that  wither  too 

early, — 

The  majestic  music  of  Death,  where  he  plays 
On  the  organ  of  eons  and  days." 

20 


Music 

HTHOU,  oh,  thou  ! 

Thou  of  the  chorded  shell  and  golden  plec 
trum  !  thou 

Of  the  dark  eyes  and  pale  pacific  brow  ! 
Music,  who  by  the  plangent  waves, 
Or  in  the  echoing  night  of  labyrinthine  caves, 
Or  on  God's  mountains,  lonely  as  the  stars, 
Touchest  reverberant  bars 
Of  immemorial  sorrow  and  amaze  ; — 
Keeping  regret  and  memory  awake, 
And  all  the  immortal  ache 
Of  love  that  leans  upon  the  past's  sweet  days 
In  retrospection  ! — now,  oh,  now, 
Interpreter  and  heart-physician,  thou, 
Who  gazest  on  the  heaven  and  the  hell 
Of  life,  and  singest  each  as  well, 
Touch  with  thy  all-mellifluous  finger-tips, 
Or  thy  melodious  lips, 
This  sickness  named  my  soul, 
Making  it  whole, 
As  is  an  echo  of  a  chord, 
Or  some  symphonic  word, 
Or  sweet  vibrating  sigh, 
That  deep,  resurgent  still  doth  rise  and  die 
On  thy  voluminous  roll  ; 
Part  of  the  beauty  and  the  mystery 
That  axles  Earth  with  song  ;  and  as  a  slave, 
Swings  it  around  and  'round  on  each  sonorous  pole, 
'Mid  spheric  harmony, 
And  choral  majesty, 
And  diapasoning  of  wind  and  wave  ; 
And  speeds  it  on  its  far  elliptic  way 
'Mid  vasty  anthemings  of  night  and  day. — 


O  cosmic  cry 

Of  two  eternities,  wherein  we  see 

The  phantasms,  Death  and  Life, 

At  endless  strife 

Above  the  silence  of  a  monster  grave. 


Jotunheim 

I 

TDEYOND    the    Northern     Lights,    in    regions 

haunted 

Of  twilight,  where  the  world  is  glacier  planted, 
And  pale  as  Loki  in  his  cavern  when 
The  serpent's  slaver  burns  him  to  the  bones, 
I  saw  the  phantasms  of  gigantic  men, 
The  prototypes  of  vastness,  quarrying  stones  ; 
Great  blocks  of  winter,  glittering  with  the  morn's 
And  evening's  co^rs, — wild  prismatic  tones 
Of  boreal  beauty. — Like  the  three  gray  Norns, 
Silence  and  solitude  and  terror  loomed 
Around  them  where  they  labored.     Walls  arose, 
Vast  as  the  Andes  when  creation  boomed 
Insurgent  fire  ;  and  through  the  rushing  snows 
Enormous  battlements  of  tremendous  ice, 
Bastioned  and  turreted,  1  saw  arise. 

II 

But  who  can  sing  the  workmanship  gigantic 
That  reared  within  its  coruscating  dome 

The  roaring  fountain,  hurling  an  Atlantic 

Of   streaming   ice    that   flashed  with    flame  and 
foam  ? 

An  opal  spirit,  various  and  many  formed, — 

In  whose  clear  heart  reverberant  fire  stormed, — 

22 


Seemed  its  inhabitant  ;  and  through  pale  halls, 

And  deep  diaphanous  walls, 

And  corridors  of  whiteness, 

Auroral  colors  swarmed, 

As  rosy-flickering  stains, 

Or  lambent  green,  or  gold,  or  crimson,  warmed 
The  pulsing  crystal  of  the  spirit's  veins 

With  ever-changing  brightness. 
And  through  the  Arctic  night  there  went  a  voice, 
As  if  the  ancient  Earth  cried  out,  "  Rejoice  ! 

My  heart  is  full  of  lightness  !  " 

III 

Here  well  might  Thor,  the  god  of  war, 

Harness  the  whirlwinds  to  his  car, 

While,  mailed  in  storm,  his  iron  arm 

Heaves  high  his  hammer's  lava-form, 

And  red  and  black  his  beard  streams  back, 

Like  some  fierce  torrent  scoriae, 

Whose  earthquake  light  glares  through  the  night 

Around  some  dark  volcanic  height  ; 

And  through  the  skies  Valkyrian  cries 

Trumpet,  as  battleward  he  flies, 

Death  in  his  hair  and  havoc  in  his  eyes. 


IV 

Still  in  my  dreams  I  hear  that  fountain  flowing  ; 
Beyond  all  seeing  and  beyond  all  knowing  ; 
Still  in  my  dreams  I  see  those  wild  walls  glowing 

With  hues,  Aurora-kissed  ; 
And  through  huge  halls  fantastic  phantoms  going, 

Vast  shapes  of  snow  and  mist, — 
Sonorous  clarions  of  the  tempest  blowing, — 

That  trail  dark  banners  by, 

23 


Cloudlike,  underneath  the  sky 
Of  the  caverned  dome  on  high, 
Carbuncle  and  amethyst. — 
Still  I  hear  the  ululation 
Of  their  stormy  exultation, 
Multitudinous,  and  blending 
In  hoarse  echoes,  far,  unending  ; 
And,  through  halls  of  fog  and  frost, 
Howling  back,  like  madness  lost 
In  the  moonless  mansion  of 
Its  own  demon-haunted  love. 

V 

Still  in  my  dreams  I  hear  the  mermaid  singing  ; 
The  mermaid  music  at  its  portal  ringing  ; 
The  mermaid  song,  that  hinged  with  gold  its  door, 
And,  whispering  evermore, 
Hushed  the  ponderous  hurl  and  roar 
And  vast  seolian  thunder 
Of  the  chained  tempests  under 
The  frozen  cataracts  that  were  its  floor. — 
And,  blinding  beautiful,  I  still  behold 
The  mermaid  there,  combing  her  locks  of  gold, 
While,  at  her  feet,  green  as  the  Northern  Seas, 
Gambol  her  flocks  of  seals  and  walruses  ; 
While,  like  a  drift,  her  dog— a  Polar  bear- 
Lies  by  her,  glowering  through  his  shaggy  hair. 


O  wondrous  house,  built  by  supernal  hands 

In  vague  and  ultimate  lands  ! 
Thy  architects  were  behemoth  wind  and  cloud, 

That,  laboring  loud, 
Mountained  thy  world  foundations  and  uplifted 

Thy  skyey  bastions  drifted 

24 


Of  piled  eternities  of  ice  and  snow  ; 

Where  storms,  like  ploughmen,  go, 
Ploughing  the  deeps  with  awful  hurricane  ; 

Where,  spouting  icy  rain, 
The  huge  whale  wallows  ;  and  through  furious  hail 

Th'  explorer's  tattered  sail 
Drives  like  the  wing  of  some  terrific  bird, 

Where  wreck  and  famine  herd. — 
Home  of  the  red  Auroras  and  the  gods  ! 
He  who  profanes  thy  perilous  threshold, — where 

The  ancient  centuries  lair, 
And,  glacier-throned,  thy  monarch,  Winter,  nods, — 

Let  him  beware  ! 
Lest,  coming  on  that  hoary  presence  there, 

Whose  pitiless  hand, 

Above  that  hungry  land, 
An  iceberg  wields  as  sceptre,  and  whose  crown 

The  North  Star  is,  set  in  a  band  of  frost, 
He,  too,  shall  feel  the  bitterness  of  that  frown, 

And,  turned  to  stone,  forevermore  be  lost. 


Dionysia 

HP  HE  day  is  dead  ;  and  in  the  west 

The  slender  crescent  of  the  moon- 
Diana's  crystal -kindled  crest — 
Sinks  hillward  in  a  silvery  swoon. 
What  is  the  murmur  in  the  dell  ? 
The  stealthy  whisper  and  the  drip  ? — 
A  Dryad  with  her  leaf-light  trip  ? 
Or  Naiad  o'er  her  fountain  well  ? — 
Who,  with  white  fingers  for  her  comb, 
Sleeks  her  blue  hair,  and  from  its  curls 
Showers  slim  minnows  and  pale  pearls, 

25 


And  hollow  music  of  the  foam. 

What  is  it  in  the  vistaed  ways 

That   leans   and   springs,    and    stoops   and 

sways  ? — 

The  naked  limbs  of  one  who  flees  ? 
An  Oread  who  hesitates^. 
Before  the  Satyr  form  that  waits, 
Crouching  to  leap,  that  there  she  sees  ? 
Or  under  boughs,  reclining  cool, 
A  Hamadryad,  like  a  pool 
Of  moonlight,  palely  beautiful  ? 
Or  Limnad,  with  her  lilied  face, 
More  lovely  than  the  misty  lace 
That  haunts  a  star  and  gives  it  grace  ? 
Or  is  it  some  Leimoniad, 
In  wildwood  flowers  dimly  clad  ? 
Oblong  blossoms  white  as  froth  ; 
Or  mottled  like  the  tiger-moth  ; 
Or  brindled  as  the  brows  of  death  ; 
Wild  of  hue  and  wild  of  breath. 
Here  ethereal  flame  and  milk 
Blent  with  velvet  and  with  silk  ; 
Here  an  iridescent  glow 
Mixed  with  satin  and  with  snow  : 
Pansy,  poppy  and  the  pale 
Serpolet  and  galingale  ; 
Mandrake  and  anemone, 
Honey-reservoirs  o'  the  bee  ; 
Cistus  and  the  cyclamen, — 
Cheeked  like  blushing  Hebe  this, 
And  the  other  white  as  is 
Bubbled  milk  of  Venus  when 
Cupid's  baby  mouth  is  pressed, 
Rosy,  to  her  rosy  breast. 
And,  besides,  all  flowers  that  mate 


With  aroma,  and  in  hue 
Stars  and  rainbows  duplicate 
Here  on  earth  for  me  and  you. 

Yea  !  at  last  mine  eyes  can  see  ! 

'  Tis  no  shadow  of  the  tree 

Swaying  softly  there,  but  she  ! — 

Maenad,  Bassarid,  Bacchant, 

What  you  will,  who  doth  enchant 

Night  with  sensuous  nudity. 

Lo  !  again  I  hear  her  pant 

Breasting  through  the  dewy  glooms — 

Through  the  glow-worm  gleams  and  glowers 

Of  the  starlight  ; — wood-perfumes 

Swoon  around  her  and  frail  showers 

Of  the  leaflet-tilted  rain. 

Lo,  like  love,  she  comes  again, 

Through  the  pale,  voluptuous  dusk, 

Sweet  of  limb  with  breasts  of  musk. 

With  her  lips,  like  blossoms,  breathing 

Honeyed  pungence  of  her  kiss, 

And  her  auburn  tresses  wreathing 

Like  umbrageous  helichrys, 

There  she  stands,  like  fire  and  snow, 

In  the  moon's  ambrosial  glow, 

Both  her  shapely  loins  low-looped 

With  the  balmy  blossoms,  drooped, 

Of  the  deep  amaracus. 

Spiritual  yet  sensual, 

Lo,  she  ever  greets  me  thus 

In  my  vision  ;  white  and  tall, 

Her  delicious  body  there, — 

Raimented  with  amorous  air, — 

To  my  mind  expresses  all 

The  allurements  of  the  world. 

And  once  more  I  seem  to  feel 


On  my  soul,  like  frenzy,  hurled 

All  the  passionate  past. — I  reel, 

Greek  again  in  ancient  Greece, 

In  the  Pyrrhic  revelries  ; 

In  the  mad  and  Maenad  dance 

Onward  dragged  with  violence  ; 

Pan  and  old  Silenus  and 

Faunus  and  a  Bacchant  band 

Round  me.     Wild  my  wine-stained  hand 

O'er  tumultuous  hair  is  lifted  ; 

While  the  flushed  and  Phallic  orgies 

Whirl  around  me  ;  and  the  marges 

Of  the  wood  are  torn  and  rifted 

\Vith  lascivious  laugh  and  shout. 

And  barbarian  there  again, — 

Shameless  with  the  shameless  rout, 

Bacchus  lusting  in  each  vein, — 

With  her  pagan  lips  on  mine, 

Like  a  god  made  drunk  with  wine, 

On  I  reel ;  and,  in  the  revels, 

Her  loose  hair,  the  dance  dishevels, 

Blows,  and  'thwart  my  vision  swims 

All  the  splendor  of  her  limbs.     .     . 

So  it  seems.     Yet  woods  are  lonely. 

And  when  I  again  awake, 

I  shall  find  their  faces  only 

Moonbeams  in  the  boughs  that  shake  ; 

And  their  revels,  but  the  rush 

Of  night-winds  through  bough  and  brush. 

Yet  my  dreaming — is  it  more 

Than  mere  dreaming  ?     Is  some  door 

Opened  in  my  soul  ?  a  curtain 

Raised  ?  to  let  me  see  for  certain 

I  have  lived  that  life  before  ? 


The  Last 
Song 

O  HE  sleeps  ;  he  sings  to  her.    The  day  was  long  , 

And,  tired  out  with  too  much  happiness, 
She  fain  would  have  him  sing  of  old  Provence  ; 
Quaint  songs,  that  spoke  of  love  in  such  soft  tones, 
Her  restless  soul  was  straight  besieged  of  dreams, 
And  her  wild  heart  beleagured  of  deep  peace, 
And  heart  and  soul  surrendered  unto  sleep. — 
Like  perfect  sculpture  in  the  moon  she  lies, 
Its  pallor  on  her  through  heraldic  panes 
Of  one  tall  casement's  guled  quarterings. — 
Beside  her  couch,  an  antique  table,  weighed 
With  gold  and  crystal  ;  here,  a  carven  chair, 
Whereon  her  raiment, — that  suggests  sweet  curves 
Of  shapely  beauty, — bearing  her  limbs'  impress, 
Is  richly  laid  :  and,  near  the  chair,  a  glass, 
An  oval  mirror  framed  in  ebony  : 
And,  dim  and  deep, — investing  all  the  room 
With  ghostly  life  of  woven  women  and  men, 
And  strange  fantastic  gloom,  where  shadows  live, — 
Dark  tapestry, — which  in  the  gusts — that  twinge 
A  grotesque  cresset's  slender  star  of  light — 
Seems  moved  of  cautious  hands,  assassin-like, 
That  wait  the  hour. 

She  alone,  deep-haired 
As  rosy  dawn,  and  whiter  than  a  rose, 
Divinely  breasted  as  the  Queen  of  Love, 
Lies  robeless  in  the  glimmer  of  the  moon, 
Like  Danae  within  the  golden  shower. 
Seated  beside  her  aromatic  rest, 
In  rapture  musing  on  her  loveliness, 
Her  knight  and  troubadour.     A  lute,  aslope 
The  curious  baldric  of  his  tunic,  glints 

29 


With  pearl-reflections  of  the  moon,  that  seem 
The  silent  ghosts  of  long-dead  melodies. 
In  purple  and  sable,  slashed  with  solemn  gold, 
Like  stately  twilight  o'er  the  snow-heaped  hills, 
He  bends  above  her. — 

Have  his  hands  forgot 

Their  craft,  that  they  pause,  idle  on  the  strings  ? 
His    lips,  their    art,    that    they  cease,    speechless 

there  ?— 

His  eyes  are  set.     .     .     .     What  is  it  stills  to  stone 
His  hands,  his  lips  ?  and  mails  him,  head  and  heel, 
In  terrible  marble,  motionless  and  cold? — 
Behind  the  arras,  can  it  be  he  feels, 
Black-browed  and  grim,  with  eyes  of  sombre  fire, 
Death  towers  above  him  with  uplifted  sword  ? 


Romaunt  of 
the  Oak 

<  <  T   RODE  to  death,  for  I  fought  for  shame — 
The  Lady  Maurine  of  noble  name, 

"  The  fair  and  faithless  ! — Though  life  be  long 
Is  love  the  wiser  ? — Love  made  song 

"  Of  all  my  life  ;  and  the  soul  that  crept 
Before,  arose  like  a  star  and  leapt : 

"  Still  leaps  with  the  love  that  it  found  untrue, 
That  it  found  unworthy. — Now  run  me  through  ! 

"  Yea,  run  me  through  !  for  meet  and  well, 
And  a  jest  for  laughter  of  fiends  in  hell, 

"  It  is  that  I,  who  have  done  no  wrong, 
Should  die  by  the  hand  of  Hugh  the  Strong, 

30 


"  Of  Hugh  her  leman  ! — What  else  could  be 
When  the  devil  was  judge  tvvixt  thee  and  me  ? 

"  He  splintered  my  lance,  and  my  blade  he  broke- 
Now  finish  me  thou  'neath  the  trysting  oak  !  "  .   . 

The  crest  of  his  foeman,— a  heart  of  white 
In  a  bath  of  fire, — stooped  i'  the  night  ; 

Stooped  and  laughed  as  his  sword  he  swung, 
Then  galloped  away  with  a  laugh  on  his  tongue.  .  . 

But  who  is  she  in  the  gray,  wet  dawn, 
'Mid  the  autumn  shades  like  a  shadow  wan  ? 

Who  kneels,  one  hand  on  her  straining  breast, 
One  hand  on  the  dead  man's  bosom  pressed  ? 

Her  face  is  dim  as  the  dead's  ;  as  cold 
As  his  tarnished  harness  of  steel  and  gold. 

O  Lady  Maurine  !     O  Lady  Maurine  ! 
What  boots  it  now  that  regret  is  keen  ? 

That  his  hair  you  smooth,  that  you  kiss  his  brow 
What  boots  it  now  ?  what  boots  it  now  ?    .    .     . 

She  has  haled  him  under  the  trysting  oak, 
The  huge  old  oak  that  the  creepers  cloak. 

She  has  stood  him,  gaunt  in  his  battered  arms, 
In  its  haunted  hollow. — "  Be  safe  from  storms," 

She  laughed  as  his  cloven  casque  she  placed 
On  his  brow,  and  his  riven  shield  she  braced. 

Then  sat  and  talked  to  the  forest  flowers 
Through  the  lonely  term  of  the  day's  pale  hours. 

And  stared  and  whispered  and  smiled  and  wept, 
While  nearer  and  nearer  the  evening  crept. 


And,  lo,  when  the  moon,  like  a  great  gold  bloom 
Above  the  sorrowful  trees  did  loom, 

She  rose  up  sobbing,  "  O  moon,  come  see 
My  bridegroom  here  in  the  old  oak-tree  ! 

44  I  have  talked  to  the  flowers  all  day,  all  day, 
For  never  a  word  had  he  to  say. 

44  He  would  not  listen,  he  would  not  hear, 
Though  I  wailed  my  longing  into  his  ear. 

44  O  moon,  steal  in  where  he  stands  so  grim, 
And  tell  him  I  love  him,  and  plead  with  him. 

14  Soften  his  face  that  is  cold  and  stern 
And  brighten  his  eyes  and  make  them  burn, 

14  O  moon,  O  moon,  so  my  soul  can  see 

That  his  heart  still  glows  with  love  for  me  !  ".     . 

When  the  moon  was  set,  and  the  woods  were  dark, 
The  wild  deer  came  and  stood  as  stark 

As  phantoms  with  eyes  of  fire  ;  or  fled 
Like  a  ghostly  hunt  of  the  herded  dead. 

And  the  hoot-owl  called  ;  and  the  were-wolf  snarled  ; 
And  a  voice,  in  the  boughs  of  the  oak-tree  gnarled, — 

Like  the  whining  rush  of  the  hags  that  ride 
To  the  witches'  sabboth, — crooned  and  cried. 

And  wrapped  in  his  mantle  of  wind  and  cloud 
The  storm-fiend  stalked  through  the  forest  loud. 

When  she  heard  the  dead  man  rattle  and  groan 
As  the  oak  was  bent  and  its  leaves  were  blown, 

And  the  lightning  vanished  and  shimmered  his  mail, 
Through  the  swirling  sweep  of  the  rain  and  hail, 

32 


She  seemed  to  hear  him,  who  seemed  to  call, — 
"  Come  hither,  Maurine,  the  wild  leaves  fall ! 

"  The  wild  leaves  rustle,  the  wild  leaves  flee  ; 
Come  hither,  Maurine,  to  the  hollow  tree  ! 

"  To  the  trysting  tree,  to  the  tree  once  green  ; 
Come  hither,  Maurine!  come  hither,  Maurine  !"  .  .  . 

They  found  her  closed  in  his  armored  arms — 

Had  he  claimed  his  bride  on  that  night  of  storms  ? 


Morgan  le 
Fay 

T  N  dim  samite  was  she  bedight, 

And  on  her  hair  a  hoop  of  gold, 
Like  fox-fire  in  the  tawn  moonlight, 
Was  glimmering  cold. 

With  soft  gray  eyes  she  gloomed  and  glowered  ; 

With  soft  red  lips  she  sang  a  song  : 
What  knight  might  gaze  upon  her  face, 
Nor  fare  along  ? 

For  all  her  looks  were  full  of  spells, 

And  all  her  words  of  sorcery  ; 
And  in  some  way  they  seemed  to  say 
"  Oh,  come  with  me  ! 

"  Oh,  come  with  me  !  oh,  come  with  me  ! 

Oh,  come  with  me,  my  love,  Sir  Kay  !  " — 
How  should  he  know  the  witch,  I  trow, 
Morgan  le  Fay  ? 

33 


How  should  he  know  the  wily  witch, 

With  sweet  white  face  and  raven  hair  ? 
Who  by  her  art  bewitched  his  heart 
And  held  him  there. 

For  soul  and  sense  had  waxed  amort 

To  wold  and  weald,  to  slade  and  stream  ; 
And  all  he  heard  was  her  soft  word 
As  one  adream. 

And  all  he  saw  was  her  bright  eyes, 

And  her  fair  face  that  held  him  still ; 
And  wild  and  wan  she  led  him  on 
O'er  vale  and  hill. 

Until  at  last  a  castle  lay 

Beneath  the  moon,  among  the  trees  ; 
Its  Gothic  towers  old  and  gray 
With  mysteries. 

Tall  in  its  hall  an  hundred  knights 

In  armor  stood  with  glaive  in  hand  ; 
The  following  of  some  great  King, 
Lord  of  that  land. 

Sir  Bors,  Sir  Balin,  and  Gawain, 

All  Arthur's  knights,  and  many  mo  ; 
But  these  in  battle  had  been  slain 
Long  years  ago. 

But  when  Morgan  with  lifted  hand 

Moved  down  the  hall,  they  louted  low  ; 
For  she  was  Queen  of  Shadowland, 
That  woman  of  snow. 

Then  from  Sir  Kay  she  drew  away, 

And  mocking  at  him  by  her  side, — 
"  Behold,  Sir  Knights,  the  knave  who  slew 
Your  King,"  she  cried. 

34 


Then  like  one  man  those  shadows  raised 

Their  swords,  whereon  the  moon  glanced  gray 
And  clashing  all  strode  from  the  wall 
Against  Sir  Kay. 

And  on  his  body,  bent  and  bowed, 

The  hundred  blades  like  one  blade  fell  ; 
While  over  all  rang  long  and  loud 
The  mirth  of  Hell. 


The  Dream 
of  Roderick 

"DELOW,  the  tawny  Tagus  swept 

Past  royal  gardens,  breathing  balm  ; 
Upon  his  couch  the  monarch  slept  ; 
The  world  was  still  ;  the  night  was  calm. 

Gray,  Gothic-gated,  in  the  ray 

Of  moonrise,  tower-  and  castle-crowned, 

The  city  of  Toledo  lay 

Beneath  the  terraced  palace-ground. 

Again,  he  dreamed,  in  kingly  sport 
He  sought  the  tree-sequestered  path, 
And  watched  the  ladies  of  his  Court 
Within  the  marble-basined  bath. 

Its  porphyry  stairs  and  fountained  base 
Shone,  houried  with  voluptuous  forms, 
Where  Andalusia  vied  in  grace 
With  old  Castile,  in  female  charms. 

And  laughter,  song,  and  water-splash 
Rang  round  the  place,  with  stone  arcaded, 
As  here  a  breast  or  limb  would  flash 
Where  beauty  swam  or  beauty  waded. 

35 


And  then,  like  Venus,  from  the  wave 
A  maiden  came,  and  stood  below  ; 
And  by  her  side  a  woman  slave 
Bent  down  to  dry  her  limbs  of  snow. 

Then  on  the  tesselated  bank, 
Robed  on  with  fragrance  and  with  fire, — 
Like  some  exotic  flower — she  sank, 
The  type  of  all  divine  desire. 

Then  her  dark  curls,  that  sparkled  wet, 
She  parted  from  her  perfect  brows, 
And,  lo,  her  eyes,  like  lamps  of  jet 
Within  an  alabaster  house. 

And  in  his  sleep  the  monarch  sighed, 
"  Florinda  !  " — Dreaming  still  he  moaned, 
"  Ah,  would  that  I  had  died,  had  died  ! 
I  have  atoned  !     I  have  atoned  !  "     .     .     . 

And  then  the  vision  changed  :  O'erhead 
Tempest  and  darkness  were  unrolled, 
Full  of  wild  voices  of  the  dead, 
And  lamentations  manifold. 

And  wandering  shapes  of  gaunt  despair 
Swept  by,  with  faces  pale  as  pain, 
Whose  eyes  wept  blood  and  seemed  to  glare 
Fierce  curses  on  him  through  the  rain. 

And  then,  it  seemed,  'gainst  blazing  skies 
A  necromantic  tower  sate, 
Crag-like  on  crags,  of  giant  size  ; 
Of  adamant  its  walls  and  gate. 

And  from  the  storm  a  hand  of  might 
Red-rolled  in  thunder,  reached  among 
The  gate's  huge  bolts — that  burst ;  and  night 
Clanged  ruin  as  its  hinges  swung. 

36 


Then  far  away  a  murmur  trailed, — 

As  of  sad  seas  on  cavern 'd  shores, — 

That  grew  into  a  voice  that  wailed, 

"  They  come  !  they  come  !  the  Moors !  the  Moors  ! 

And  with  deep  boom  of  atabals 
And  crash  of  cymbals  and  wild  peal 
Of  battle-bugles,  from  its  walls 
An  army  rushed  in  glimmering  steel. 

And  where  it  trod  he  saw  the  torch 
Of  conflagration  stalk  the  skies, 
And  in  the  vanward  of  its  march 
The  monster  form  of  Havoc  rise. 

And  Paynim  war-cries  rent  the  storm, 
Athwart  whose  firmament  of  flame, 
Destruction  reared  an  earthquake  form 
On  wreck  and  death  without  a  name     . 

And  then  again  the  vision  changed  : 
Where  flows  the  Guadalete,  see, 
The  warriors  of  the  Cross  are  ranged 
Against  the  Crescent's  chivalry. 

With  roar  of  trumpets  and  of  drums 

They  meet  ;  and  in  the  battle's  van 

He  fights  ;  and,  towering  towards  him,  comes 

Florin  da's  father,  Julian  ; 

And  one-eyed  Taric,  great  in  war  : 
And  where  these  couch  their  burning  spears, 
The  Christian  phalanx,  near  and  far, 
Goes  down  like  corn  before  the  shears. 

The  Moslem  wins  :  the  Christian  flies  : 
"  Allah  il  Allah,"  hill  and  plain 
Reverberate  :  the  rocking  skies, 
"  Allah  il  Allah,"  shout  again. 

37 


And  then  he  dreamed  the  swing  of  swords 
And  hurl  of  arrows  were  nc  more  ; 
But,  louder  than  the  howling  hordes, 
Strange  silence  fell  on  field  and  shore. 

And  through  the  night,  it  seemed,  he  fled, 
Upon  a  white  steed  like  a  star, 
Across  a  field  of  endless  dead, 
Beneath  a  blood-red  scimitar 

Of  sunset  :     And  he  heard  a  moan, 
Beneath,  around,  on  every  hand — 
"  Accursed  !     Yea,  what  hast  thou  done 
To  bring  this  curse  upon  thy  land  ?  " 

And  then  an  awful  sense  of  wings  : 
And,  lo  !  the  answer — "  '  T  was  his  lust 
That  was  his  crime.     Behold  !  E'en  kings 
Must  reckon  with  Me.     All  are  dust." 


Zyps  of 
Zirl 

'HTHE  Alps  of  the  Tyrol  are  dark  with  pines, 

Where,  foaming  under  the  mountain  spines, 
The  Inn's  long  water  sounds  and  shines. 

Beyond,  are  peaks  where  the  morning  weaves 
An  icy  rose  ;  and  the  evening  leaves 
The  glittering  gold  of  a  thousand  sheaves. 

Deep  vines  and  torrents  and  glimmering  haze, 
And  sheep-bells  tinkling  on  mountain  ways, 
And  fluting  shepherds  make  sweet  the  days. 

The  rolling  mist,  like  a  wandering  fleece, 
The  great  round  moon  in  a  mountain  crease, 
And  a  song  of  love  make  the  nights  all  peace. 

33 


Beneath  the  blue  Tyrolean  skies 

On  the  banks  of  the  Inn,  that  foams  and  flies, 

The  storied  city  of  Innsbruck  lies. 

With  its  mediaeval  streets,  that  crook, 
And  its  gabled  houses,  it  has  the  look 
Of  a  belfried  town  in  a  fairy-book. 

So  wild  the  Tyrol  that  oft,  't  is  said, 
When  the  storm  is  out  and  the  town  in  bed, 
The  howling  of  wolves  sweeps  overhead. 

And  oft  the  burgher,  sitting  here 

In  his  walled  rose-garden,  hears  the  clear 

Shrill  scream  of  the  eagle  circling  near. 

And  this  is  the  tale  that  the  burghers  tell : — 
The  Abbot  of  Wiltau  stood  at  his  cell 
Where  the  Solstein  lifts  its  pinnacle. 

A  mighty  summit  of  bluffs  and  crags 

That  frowns  on  the  Inn  ;  where  the  forest  stags 

Have  worn  a  path  to  the  water-flags. 

The  Abbot  of  Wiltau  stood  below  ; 

And  he  was  aware  of  a  plume  and  bow 

On  the  precipice  there  in  the  morning's  glow. 

A  chamois,  he  saw,  from  span  to  span 
Had  leapt ;  and  after  it  leapt  a  man  ; 
And  he  knew  k  t  was  the  Kaiser  Maxmilian. 

But,  see  !  though  rash  as  the  chamois  he, 

His  foot  less  sure.     And  verily 

If  the  King  should  miss     .     .     .     "  Jesu,  Marie  ! 

"  The  King  hath  missed  !  " — And,  look,  he  falls  ! 
Rolls  headlong  out  to  the  headlong  walls. 
What  saint  shall  save  him  on  whom  he  calls  ? 

39 


What  saint  shall  save  him,  who  struggles  there 

On  the  narrow  ledge  by  the  eagle's  lair, 

With  hooked  hands  clinging  'twixt  earth  and  air  ? 

The  Abbot,  he  crosses  himself  in  dread — 
"  Let  prayers  go  up  for  the  nearly  dead, 
And  the  passing-bell  be  tolled,"  he  said. 

"  For  the  House  of  Hapsburg  totters  ;  see, 

How  raveled  the  thread  of  its  destiny, 

Sheer  hung  between  cloud  and  rock  !  "  quoth  he. 

But  hark  !  where  the  steeps  of  the  peak  reply, 

Is  it  an  eagle's  echoing  cry  ? 

And  the  flitting  shadow,  its  plumes  on  high  ? 

No  voice  of  the  eagle  is  that  which  rings  ! 
And  the  shadow,  a  wiry  man  who  swings 
Down,  down  where  the  desperate  Kaiser  clings. 

The  crampons  bound  to  his  feet,  he  leaps 
Like  a  chamois  now  ;  and  again  he  creeps 
Or  twists,  like  a  snake,  o'er  the  fearful  deeps. 

"  By  his  cross-bow,  baldrick,  and  cap's  black  curl," 
Quoth  the  Abbot  below,  "  I  know  the  churl  ! 
'  T  is  the  hunted  outlaw  Zyps  of  Zirl. 

"  Upon  whose  head,  or  dead  or  alive, 

The  Kaiser  hath  posted  a  price. — Saints  shrive 

The  King  !  "  quoth  Wiltau.     "  Who  may  contrive 

"  To  save  him  now  that  his  foe  is  there  ?  " — 
But,  listen  !  again  through  the  breathless  air 
What  words  are  those  that  the  echoes  bear  ? 

"  Courage,  my  King  ! — To  the  rescue,  ho  !  " 
The  wild  voice  rings  like  a  twanging  bow, 
And  the  staring  Abbot  stands  mute  below. 

40 


And,  lo  !  the  hand  of  the  outlaw  grasps 
The  arm  of  the  King — and  death  unclasps 
Its  fleshless  fingers  from  him  who  gasps. 

And  how  he  guides  !  where  the  clean  cliffs  wedge 
Them  flat  to  their  faces  ;  by  chasm  and  ledge 
He  helps  the  King  from  the  merciless  edge. 

Then  up  and  up,  past  bluffs  that  shun 

The  rashest  chamois  ;  where  eagles  sun 

Fierce  wings  and  brood  ;  where  the  mists  are  spun. 

And  safe  at  last  stand  Kaiser  and  churl 

On  the  mountain  path  where  the  mosses  curl — 

And  this  the  revenge  of  Zyps  of  Zirl. 


The 
Glowworm 

T  T  OW  long  had  I  sat  there  and  had  not  beheld 

The  gleam  of  the  glow-worm  till  something 
compelled  !     .     .     . 

The  heaven  was  starless,  the  forest  was  deep, 

And  the  vistas  of  darkness  stretched  silent  in  sleep. 

And  late  'mid  the  trees  had  I  lingered  until 
No  thing  was  awake  but  the  lone  whippoorwill. 

And  haunted  of  thoughts  for  an  hour  I  sat 

On  a  lichen-gray  rock  where  the  moss  was  a  mat. 

And  thinking  of  one  whom  my  heart  had  held  dear, 
Like  terrible  waters,  a  gathering  fear 

Came  stealing  upon  me  with  all  the  distress 
Of  loss  and  of  yearning  and  powerlessness  : 

41 


Till   the  hopes   and  the  doubts  and   the   sleepless 

unrest 
That,  swallow-like,  built  in  the  home  of  my  breast, 

Now  hither,  now  thither,  now  heavenward  flew, 
Wild-winged  as  the  winds  are :  now  suddenly  drew 

My  soul  to  abysses  of  nothingness  where 
All  light  was  a  shadow,  all  hope,  a  despair  : 

Where  truth,  that  religion  had  set  upon  high, 
The  darkness  distorted  and  changed  to  a  lie  : 

And  dreams  of  the  beauty  ambition  had  fed 
Like  leaves  of  the  autumn  fell  blighted  and  dead. 

And  I  rose  with  my  burden  of  anguish  and  doom, 
And  cried,  "  O  my  God,  had  I  died  in  the  womb  ! 

"  Than  born  into  night,  with  no  hope  of  the  morn, 
An  heir  unto  shadows,  to  live  so  forlorn  ! 

"  All  effort  is  vain  ;  and  the  planet  called  Faith 
Sinks  down  ;  and  no  power  is  real  but  death. 

"  Oh,  light  me  a  torch  in  the  deepening  dark 
So  my  sick   soul    may  follow,  my   sad   heart   may 
mark  !  " — 

And  then  in  the  darkness  the  answer  ! — It  came 
From    Earth    not    from     Heaven — a    glimmering 
flame, 

Behold,  at  my  feet  !     In  the  shadow  it  shone 
Mysteriously  lovely  and  dimly  alone  : 

An  ember  ;  a  sparkle  of  dew  and  of  glower  ; 
Like  the  lamp  that  a  spirit  hangs  under  a  flower  : 

As  goldenly  green  as  the  phosphorus  star 
A  fairy  may  wear  in  her  diadem's  bar  : 

42 


An  element  essence  of  moonlight  and  dawn 

That,  trodden  and  trampled,  burns  on  and  burns  on. 

And  hushed  was  my  soul  with  the  lesson  of  light 
That  God  had  revealed  to  me  there  in  the  night  : 

Though  mortal  its  structure,  material  its  form, 
The  spiritual  message  of  worm  unto  worm. 


Ghosts 

\ XT" AS  it  the  strain  of  the  waltz  that,  repeating 

"  Love,"  so  bewitched  me  ?  or  only  the  gleam 
There  of  the  lustres,  that  set  my  heart  beating, 
Feeling  your  presence  as  one  feels  a  dream  ? 

For,  on  a  sudden,  the  woman  of  fashion, 
Soft  at  my  side  in  her  diamonds  and  lace, 
Vanished,  and  pale  with  reproach  or  with  passion, 
You,  my  dead  sweetheart,  smiled  up  in  my  face. 

Music,  the  nebulous  lights,  and  the  sifting 

Fragrance  of  women  made  amorous  the  air  ; 

Born   of   these   three   and   my  thoughts  you  came 

drifting, 
Clad  in  dim  muslin,  a  rose  in  your  hair. 

There  in  the  waltz,  that  followed  the  lancers, 
Hard  to  my  breast  did  I  crush  you  and  hold  ; 
Far  through  the  stir  and  the  throng  of  the  dancers 
Onward  I  bore  you  as  often  of  old. 

Pale  were  your  looks  ;  and  the  rose  in  your  tresses 
Paler  of  hue  than  the  dreams  we  have  lost ; — 
"  Who,"  then  I  said,  "  is  it  sees  or  who  guesses, 
Here  in  the  hall,  that  I  dance  with  a  ghost  ?  " 

43 


Gone  !     And  the  dance  and  the  music  are  ended. 
Gone  !     And  the  rapture  dies  out  of  the  skies. 
And,  on  my  arm,  in  her  elegance  splendid, 
The  woman  of  fashion  smiles  up  in  my  eyes. 

Had  I  forgotten  ?  and  did  you  remember  ? — 
You,  who  are  dead,  whom  I  cannot  forget  ; 
You,  for  whose  sake  all  my  heart  is  an  ember 
Covered  with  ashes  of  dreams  and  regret. 


The  Purple 
Valleys 

T^AR  in  the  purple  valleys  of  illusion 

I  see  her  waiting,  like  the  soul  of  music, 
With  deep  eyes,  lovelier  than  cerulean  pansies, 
Shadow  and  fire,  yet  merciless  as  poison  ; 
With  red  lips,  sweeter  than  Arabian  storax, 
Yet  bitterer  than  myrrh. — O  tears  and  kisses  ! 
O  eyes  and  lips,  that  haunt  my  soul  forever  ! 

Again  Spring  walks  transcendent  on  the  mountains  : 
The  woods  are  hushed  :  the  vales  are  blue  with 

shadows  : 

Above  the  heights,  steeped  in  a  thousand  splendors, 
Like  some  vast  canvas  of  the  gods,  hangs  burning 
The  sunset's  wild  sciography  :  and  slowly 
The   moon   treads  heaven's   proscenium,  —  night's 

stately 
White  queen  of  love  and  tragedy  and  madness. 

Again  I  know  forgotten  dreams  and  longings  ; 
Ideals  lost ;  desires  dead  and  buried 
Beside  the  altar  sacrifice  erected 
Within  the  heart's  high  sanctuary.     Strangely 
Again  I  know  the  horror  and  the  rapture, 

44 


The  utterless  awe,  the  joy  akin  to  anguish, 
The  terror  and  the  worship  of  the  spirit. 

Again  I  feel  her  eyes  pierce  through  and  through 


Her  deep  eyes,  lovelier  than  imperial  pansies, 
Velvet  and  flame,  through  which  her   fierce   will 

holds  me, 

Powerless  and  tame,  and  draws  me  on  and  onward 
To  sad,  unsatisfied  and  animal  yearnings, 
Wild,  unrestrained— the  brute  within  the  human — 
To  fling  me  panting  on  her  mouth  and  bosom. 

Again  I  feel  her  lips  like  ice  and  fire, 
Her  red  lips,  odorous  as  Arabian  storax, 
Fragrance  and  fire,  within  whose  kiss  destruction 
Lies  serpent-like.     Intoxicating  languors 
Resistlessly  embrace  me,  soul  and  body  ; 
And  we  go  drifting,  drifting — she  is  laughing — 
Outcasts  of  God,  into  the  deep's  abysm. 


The  Land 
of  Illusion 

I 

O  O  we  had  come  at  last,  my  soul  and  I, 

^     Into  that  land  of  shadowy  plain  and  peak, 

On  which  the  dawn  seemed  ever  about  to  break 
On  which  the  day  seemed  ever  about  to  die. 

II 

Long  had  we  sought  fulfillment  of  our  dreams, 
The  everlasting  wells  of  Joy  and  Youth  , 
Long  had  we  sought  the  snow-white  flow'r  of 
Truth, 

That  blooms  eternal  by  eternal  streams. 

45 


Ill 


And,  fonder  still,  we  hoped  to  find  the  sweet 
Immortal  presence,  Love  ;  the  bird  Delight 
Beside  her  ;  and,  eyed  with  sidereal  night, 

Faith,  like  a  lion,  fawning  at  her  feet. 

IV 

But,  scorched  and  barren,  in  its  arid  well, 

We  found  our  dreams'  forgotten  fountain-head 
And  by  black,  bitter  waters,  crushed  and  dead, 

Among  wild  weeds,  Truth's  trampled  asphodel. 

V 

And  side  by  side  with  pallid  Doubt  and  Pain, 
Not  Love,  but  Grief  did  meet  us  there  :  afar 
We  saw  her,  like  a  melancholy  star, 

Or  pensive  moon,  move  towards  us  o'er  the  plain. 


VI 


Sweet  was  her  face  as  song  that  sings  of  home  ; 

And    filled   our  hearts   with    vague,    suggestive 
spells 

Of  pathos,  as  sad  ocean  fills  its  shells 
With  sympathetic  meanings  of  its  foam. 


VII 


She  raised  one  hand  and  pointed  silently, 

Then   passed ;    her    eyes,   gaunt    with   a    thirst 

unslaked, 
Were   worlds  of    woe,    where   tears   in   torrents 

ached, 
Yet  never  fell.     And  like  a  winter  sea, — 

46 


VIII 

Whose   caverned   crags   are  haunts   of  wreck   and 

wrath, 

That  house  the  condor  pinions  of  the  storm, — 
My  soul  replied  ;  and,  weeping,  arm  in  arm, 

To'ards  those  dim  hills,  by  that  appointed  path, 

IX 

We  turned  and  went.     Arrived,  we  did  discern 
How    Beauty  beckoned,   white    'mid    miles   of 

flowers, 
Through  which,  behold,  the  amaranthine  Hours 

Like  maidens  went  each  holding  up  an  urn  ; 

X 

Wherein,  it  seemed — drained  from  long  chalices 
Of  those  slim  flow'rs — they  bore  mysterious  wine  ; 
A  poppied  vintage,  full  of  sleep  divine 

And  pale  forgetting  of  all  miseries. 


XI 


Then  to  my  soul  I  said,  "  No  longer  weep. 
Come,  let  us  drink  ;  for  hateful  is  the  sky, 
And  earth  is  full  of  care,  and  life  's  a  lie. 

So  let  us  drink  ;  yea,  let  us  drink  and  sleep." 

XII 

Then  from  their  brimming  urns  we  drank  sweet 

must, 

While,  all  around  us,  rose-crowned  faces  laughed 
Into  our  eyes  ;  but  hardly  had  we  quaffed 

When,  one  by  one,  these  crumbled  into  dust. 

47 


XIII 

And  league  on  league  the  eminence  of  blooms, 
That  flashed  and  billowed  like  a  summer  sea, 
Rolled  out  a  waste  of  thorns  and  tombs  ;  where 
bee 

And  butterfly  and  bird  hung  dead  in  looms 

XIV 

Of  worm  and  spider.  And  through  tomb  and  brier, 
A  thin  wind,  parched  with  thirsty  dust  and  sand, 
Went  wailing  as  if  mourning  some  lost  land 

Of  perished  empire,  Babylon  or  Tyre. 


XV 


Long,  long  with  blistered  feet  we  wandered  in 
That  land  of  ruins,  through  whose  sky  of  brass 
Hate's  Harpy  shrieked  ;  and  in  whose  iron  grass 

The  Hydra  hissed  of  undestroyable  Sin. 

XVI 

And  there  at  last,  behold,  the  House  of  Doom, — 
Red,  as  if  Hell  had  glared  it  into  life, 
Blood-red,  and  howling  with  incessant  strife, — 

With  burning  battlements,  towered  in  the  gloom. 

XVII 

And  throned  within  sat  Darkness.— Who  might  gaze 
Upon  that  form,  that  threatening  presence  there, 
Crowned  with  the  flickering  corpse-lights  of  De 
spair, 

And  yet  escape  sans  madness  and  amaze  ? 

48 


XVIII 

And  we  had  hoped  to  find  among  these  hills 
The  House  of  Beauty  ! — Curst,  yea,  thrice  accurst, 
The  hope  that  lures  one  on  from  last  to  first 

With  vain  illusions  that  no  time  fulfills  ! 

XIX 

Why  will  we  struggle  to  attain,  and  strive, 
When  all  we  gain  is  but  an  empty  dream  ? — 
Better,  unto  my  thinking,  doth  it  seem 

To  end  it  all  and  let  who  will  survive  ; 

XX 

To  find  at  last  all  beauty  is  but  dust ; 

That  love  and  sorrow  are  the  very  same  ; 

That  joy  is  only  suffering's  sweeter  name  ; 
And  sense  is  but  the  synonym  of  lust. 

XXI 

Far  better,  yea,  to  me  it  seems  to  die  ; 

To  set  glad  lips  against  the  lips  of  Death — 
The  only  thing  God  gives  that  comforteth, 

The  only  thing  we  do  not  find  a  lie. 


Spirit  of 
Dreams 


1 


"VWHERE  hast  thou  folded  thy  pinions, 

Spirit  of  Dreams  ? 
Hidden  elusive  garments 

Woven  of  gleams  ? 
In  what  divine  dominions, 


49 


Brighter  than  day, 
Far  from  the  world's  dark  torments, 

Dost  thou  stay,  dost  thou  stay  ? — 
When  shall  my  yearnings  reach  thee 

Again  ? 
Not  in  vain  let  my  soul  beseech  thee  ! 

Not  in  vain  !  not  in  vain  ! 

II 

I  have  longed  for  thee  as  a  lover 

For  her,  the  one  ; 
As  a  brother  for  a  sister 

Long  dead  and  gone. 
I  have  called  thee  over  and  over 

Names  sweet  to  hear  ; 
With  words  than  music  trister, 

And  thrice  as  dear. 
How  long  must  my  sad  heart  woo  thee, 

Yet  fail  ? 
How  long  must  my  soul  pursue  thee, 

Nor  avail,  nor  avail? 

Ill 

All  night  hath  thy  loving  mother, 

Beautiful  Sleep, 
Lying  beside  me,  listened 

And  heard  me  weep. 
But  ever  thou  soughtest  another 

Who  sought  thee  not ; 
For  him  thy  soft  smile  glistened — 

I  was  forgot. 
When  shall  my  soul  behold  thee 

As  before  ? 
When  shall  my  heart  infold  thee  ?— 

Nevermore  ?  nevermore  ? 

50 


LINES  AND  LYRICS 


To  a  Wind- 
Flower 

I 

'T^EACH  me  the  secret  of  thy  loveliness, 

That,  being  made  wise,  I  may  aspire  to  be 
As  beautiful  in  thought,  and  so  express 

Immortal  truths  to  earth's  mortality; 
Though  to  my  soul  ability  be  less 

Than  't  is  to  thee,  O  sweet  anempjje. 

II 

Teach  me  the  secret  of  thy  innocence, 

That  in  simplicity  I  may  grow  wise  ; 
Asking  from  Art  no  other  recompense 

Than  the  approval  of  her  own  just  eyes  ; 
So  may  I  rise  to  some  fair  eminence, 

Though  less  than  thine,  O  cousin  of  the  skies. 

Ill 

Teach  me  these  things  ;  through  whose  high  know 
ledge,  I,— 
When  Death  hath   poured  oblivion  through  my 

veins, 

And  brought  me  home,  as  all  are  brought,  to  lie 
In     that    vast     house,    common    to    serfs    and 

Thanes,— 

I  shall  not  die,  I  shall  not  utterly  die, 
For  beauty  born  of  beauty — that  remains. 

Microcosm 

'"PHE  memory  of  what  we've  lost 

Is  with  us  more  than  what  we've  won  ; 
Perhaps  because  we  count  the  cost 
By  what  we  could,  yet  have  not  done. 

53 


'Twixt  act  and  purpose  fate  hath  drawn 
Invisible  threads  we  can  not  break, 
And  puppet-like  these  move  us  on 
The  stage  of  life,  and  break  or  make. 

Less  than  the  dust  from  which  we're  wrought, 
We  come  and  go,  and  still  are  hurled 
From  change  to  change,  from  naught  to  naught, 
Heirs  of  oblivion  and  the  world. 


Fortune 

ITHIN  the  hollowed  hand  of  God, 

Blood-red  they  lie,  the  dice  of  fate, 
That  have  no  time  nor  period, 
And  know  no  early  and  no  late. 

Postpone  you  can  not,  nor  advance 
Success  or  failure  that  's  to  be  ; 
All  fortune,  being  born  of  chance, 
Is  bastard-child  to  destiny. 

Bow  down  your  head,  or  hold  it  high, 
Consent,  defy — no  smallest  part 
Of  this  you  change,  although  the  die 
Was  fashioned  from  your  living  heart. 


Death 

*~F*H ROUGH  some  strange  sense  of  sight  or  touch 
•*•       I  find  what  all  have  found  before, 
The  presence  I  have  feared  so  much, 
The  unknown's  immaterial  door. 

54 


I  seek  not  and  it  comes  to  me  : 

I  do  not  know  the  thing  I  find  : 

The  fillet  of  fatality 

Drops  from  my  brows  that  made  me  blind. 

Point  forward  now  or  backward,  light  ! 
The  way  I  take  I  may  not  choose  : 
Out  of  the  night  into  the  night, 
And  in  the  night  no  certain  clews. 

But  on  the  future,  dim  and  vast, 
And  dark  with  dust  and  sacrifice, 
Death's  towering  ruin  from  the  past 
Makes  black  the  land  that  round  me  lies. 


The 

Soul 

A  N  heritage  of  hopes  and  fears 
*^^     And  dreams  and  memory, 
And  vices  of  ten  thousand  years 
God  gives  to  thee. 

A  house  of  clay,  the  home  of  Fate, 
Haunted  of  Love  and  Sin, 
Where  Death  stands  knocking  at  the  gate 
To  let  him  in. 


Conscience 

AlHTHIN  the  soul  are  throned  two  powers, 

One,  Love  ;  one,  Hate.     Begot  of  these, 
And  veiled  between,  a  presence  towers, 
The  shadowy  keeper  of  the  keys. 

55 


With  wild  command  or  calm  persuasion 
This  one  may  argue,  that  compel  ; 
Vain  are  concealment  and  evasion— 
For  each  he  opens  heaven  and  hell. 


Youth 


"JY/T  ORN'S  mystic  rose  is  reddening  on  the  hills, 
Dawn's  irised  nautilus  makes  glad  the  sea  ; 
There  is  a  lyre  of  flame  that  throbs  and  fills 
Far  heaven  and  earth  with  hope's  wild  ecstasy. — 
With  lilied  field  and  grove, 
Haunts  of  the  turtle-dove, 
Here  is  the  land  of  Love. 

II 

The  chariot  of  the  noon  makes  blind  the  blue 
As  towards  the  goal  his  burning  axle  glares  ; 
There  is  a  fiery  trumpet  thrilling  through 
Wide  heaven   and   earth  with   deeds   of  one  who 
dares. — 

With  peaks  of  splendid  name, 
Wrapped  round  with  astral  flame, 
Here  is  the  land  of  Fame. 

Ill 

The  purple  priesthood  of  the  evening  waits 
With  golden  pomp  within  the  templed  skies  ; 
There  is  a  harp  of  worship  at  the  gates 
Of  heaven  and  earth  that  bids  the  soul  arise. — 
With  columned  cliffs  and  long 
Vales,  music  breathes  among, 
Here  is  the  land  of  Song, 

56 


or  THf 


UNIVERSITY 


Moon-crowned,  the  epic  of  the  night  unrolls 
Its  starry  utterance  o'er  height  and  deep  ; 
There  is  a  voice  of  beauty  at  the  souls 
Of  heaven  and  earth  that  lulls  the  heart  asleep. 
With  storied  woods  and  streams, 
Where  marble  glows  and  gleams, 
Here  is  the  land  of  Dreams. 


Life's 
Seasons 

I 

\1THEN  all  the  world  was  Mayday, 

*          And  all  the  skies  were  blue, 
Young  innocence  made  playday 

Among  the  flowers  and  dew  ; 
Then  all  of  life  was  Mayday, 

And  clouds  were  none  or  few. 

II 

When  all  the  world  was  Summer, 

And  morn  shone  overhead, 
Love  was  the  sweet  newcomer 

Who  led  youth  forth  to  wed  ; 
Then  all  of  life  was  Summer, 

And  clouds  were  golden  red. 

Ill 

When  earth  was  all  October, 
And  days  were  gray  with  mist, 

On  woodways,  sad  and  sober, 
Grave  memory  kept  her  tryst  ; 

Then  life  was  all  October, 

And  clouds  were  twilight-kissed. 

57 


IV 

Now  all  the  world  's  December, 

And  night  is  all  alarm, 
Above  the  last  dim  ember 

Grief  bends  to  keep  him  warm  ; 
Now  all  of  life  's  December, 

And  clouds  are  driven  storm. 


Old 

Homes 

/^\LD    homes    among    the   hills  !    I    love    their 

gardens, 

Their  old  rock-fences,  that  our  day  inherits  ; 
Their  doors,  'round  which  the  great  trees  stand  like 

wardens  ; 
Their  paths,  down  which    the  shadows  march  like 

spirits  ; 
Broad  doors  and    paths    that   reach    bird-haunted 

gardens. 

I  see  them  gray  among  their  ancient  acres, 
Severe  of  front,  their  gables  lichen-sprinkled, — 
Like  gentle-hearted,  solitary  Quakers, 
Grave  and  religious,  with  kind  faces  wrinkled, — 
Serene  among  their  memory-hallowed  acres. 

f 

Their  gardens,  banked  with  roses  and  with  lilies— 
Those  sweet  aristocrats  of  all  the  flowers — 
Where  Springtime  mints  her  gold  in  daffodillies, 
And  Autumn  coins  her  marigolds  in  showers, 
And  all  the  hours  are  toilless  as  the  lilies. 

I  love  their  orchards  where  the  gay  woodpecker 
Flits,  flashing  o'er  you,  like  a  winged  jewel ; 

53 


Their  woods,  whose  floors  of  moss  the  squirrels 
checker 

With  half-hulled  nuts ;  and  where,  in  cool 
renewal, 

The  wild  brooks  laugh,  and  raps  the  red  wood 
pecker. 

Old  homes  !  old  hearts  !  Upon  my  soul  forever 
Their    peace    and     gladness    lie    like    tears    and 

laughter ; 
Like  love  they  touch  me,  through  the  years  that 

sever, 

With  simple  faith  ;  like  friendship,  draw  me  after 
The  dreamy  patience  that  is  theirs  forever. 


Field  and 
Forest  Call 

HP  HERE  is  a  field,  that  leans  upon  two  hills, 
-*•       Foamed  o'er  with  flowers  and  twinkling  with 

clear  rills  ; 

That  in  its  girdle  of  wild  acres  bears 
The  anodyne  of  rest  that  cures  all  cares  ; 
Wherein  soft  wind  and  sun  and  sound  are  blent 
And  fragrance — as  in  some  old  instrument 
Sweet    chords — calm   things,    that   nature's   magic 

spell 

Distils  from  heaven's  azure  crucible, 
And  pours  on  Earth  to  make  the  sick  mind  well. 
There  lies  the  path,  they  say — 
Come,  away  !  come,  away  ! 

There  is  a  forest,  lying  'twixt  two  streams, 
Sung  through  of  birds  and  haunted  of  dim  dreams  ; 
That  in  its  league-long  hand  of  trunk  and  leaf 
Lifts  a  green  wand  that  charms  away  all  grief  ; 

59 


Wrought   of    quaint    silence    and    the    stealth    of 

things, 

Vague,  whispering  touches,  gleams  and  twitterings, 
Dews  and  cool  shadows— that  the  mystic  soul 
Of  nature  permeates  with  suave  control, 
And  waves  o'er  earth  to  make  the  sad  heart  whole. 
There  lies  the  road,  they  say- 
Come,  away  !  come,  away  ! 

Electing  in 
Summer 

A    TRANQUIL  bar 

Of  rosy  twilight  under  dusk's  first  star. 

A  glimmering  sound 
Of  whispering  waters  over  grassy  ground. 

A  sun-sweet  smell 
Of  fresh-reaped  hay  from  dewy  field  and  dell. 

A  lazy  breeze 
Jostling  the  ripeness  from  the  apple-trees. 

A  vibrant  cry, 
Passing,  then  gone,  of  bullbats  in  the  sky. 

And  faintly  now 
The  katydid  upon  the  shadowy  bough. 

And  far-off  then 
The  little  owl  within  the  lonely  glen. 

And  soon,  full  soon, 
The  silvery  arrival  of  the  moon. 

And,  to  your  door, 
The  path  of  roses  I  have  trod  before. 

And,  sweetheart,  you  ! 
Among  the  roses  and  the  moonlit  dew. 

60 


Swinging 

T  T  NDER  the  boughs  of  spring 

She  swung  in  the  old  rope-swing. 

Her  cheeks,  with  their  happy  blood, 
Were  pink  as  the  apple-bud. 

Her  eyes,  with  their  deep  delight, 
Were  glad  as  the  stars  of  night. 

Her  curls,  with  their  romp  and  fun, 
Were  hoiden  as  wind  and  sun. 

Her  lips,  with  their  laughter  shrill, 
WTere  wild  as  a  woodland  rill. 

Under  the  boughs  of  spring 

She  swung  in  the  old  rope-swing. 

And  I, — who  leaned  on  the  fence, 
Watching  her  innocence, 

As,  under  the  boughs  that  bent, 
Now  high,  now  low,  she  went, 

In  her  soul  the  ecstasies 

Of  the  stars,  the  brooks,  the  breeze, — 

Had  given  the  rest  of  my  years, 

With  their  blessings,  and  hopes,  and  fears, 

To  have  been  as  she  was  then  ; 
And,  just  for  a  moment,  again 

A  boy  in  the  old  rope-swing 
Under  the  boughs  of  spring. 


61 


Rosemary 

A  BOVE  her,  pearl  and  rose  the  heavens  lay  ; 

Around  her,  flowers  scattered  earth  with  gold, 
Or  down  the  path  in  insolence  held  sway — 
Like  cavaliers  who  ride  the  elves'  highway — 
Scarlet  and  blue,  within  a  garden  old. 

Beyond  the  hills,  faint-heard  through  belts  of  wood, 
Bells,  Sabbath-sweet,  swooned  from   some  far-off 

town  ; 

Gamboge  and  gold,  broad  sunset  colors  strewed 
The  purple  west  as  if,  with  God  imbued, 
Her  mighty  pallet  Nature  there  laid  down. 

Amid  such  flowers,  underneath  such  skies, 
Embodying  all  life  knows  of  sweet  and  fair, 
She  stood  ;  love's  dreams  in  girlhood's  face  and  eyes, 
White  as  a  star  that  comes  to  emphasize 
The  mingled  beauty  of  the  earth  and  air. 

Behind  her,  seen  through  vines  and  orchard  trees, 
Gray  with  its  twinkling  windows — like  the  face 
Of  calm  old-age  that  sits  and  smiles  at  ease — 
Porched  with  old  roses,  haunts  of  honey-bees, 
The  homestead  loomed  dim  in  a  glimmering  space. 

Ah  !  whom  she  waited  in  the  afterglow, 
Soft-eyed  and  dreamy  'mid  the  lily  and  rose, 
I  do  not  know,  I  do  not  wish  to  know  ; — 
It  is  enough  I  keep  her  picture  so, 
Hung  up,  like  poetry,  o'er  my  life's  dull  prose. 

A  fragrant  picture,  where  I  still  may  find 
Her  face  untouched  of  sorrow  or  regret, 
Unspoiled  of  contact,  ever  young  and  kind, 
Glad  spiritual  sweetheart  of  my  soul  and  mind, 
She  had  not  been,  perhaps,  if  we  had  met. 

62 


Ghost 
Stories 


Air  HEN  the  hoot  of  the  owl  comes  over  the  hill, 

At  twelve  o'clock  when  the  night  is  still, 
And  pale  on  the  pools,  where  the  creek-frogs  croon, 
Glimmering  gray  is  the  light  o'  the  moon  ; 
And  under  the  willows,  where  waters  lie, 
The  torch  of  the  firefly  wanders  by  ; 
They  say  that  the  miller  walks  here,  walks  here, 
All  covered  with  chaff,  with  his  crooked  staff, 
And  his  horrible  hobble  and  hideous  laugh  ; 
The  old  lame  miller  hung  many  a  year  : 
When  the  hoot  of  the  owl  comes  over  the  hill, 
He  walks  alone  by  the  rotting  mill. 

When  the  bark  of  the  fox  comes  over  the  hill, 
At  twelve  o'clock  when  the  night  is  shrill, 
And  faint,  on  the  ways  where  the  crickets  creep, 
The  starlight  fails  and  the  shadows  sleep  ; 
And  under  the  willows,  that  toss  and  moan, 
The  glowworm  kindles  its  lanthorn  lone  ; 
They  say  that  a  woman  floats  dead,  floats  dead, 
In  a  weedy  space  that  the  lilies  lace, 
A  curse  in  her  eyes  and  a  smile  on  her  face, 
The  miller's  young  wife  with  a  gash  in  her  head  : 
When  the  Lark  of  the  fox  comes  over  the  hill, 
She  floats  alone  by  the  rotting  mill. 

When  the  howl  of  the  hound  comes  over  the  hill, 
At  twelve  o'clock  when  the  night  is  ill, 
And  the  thunder  mutters  and  forests  sob, 
And  the  foxfire  glows  like  the  lamp  of  a  Lob  ; 
And  under  the  willows,  that  gloom  and  glance, 
The  will-o'-the-wisps  hold  a  devils'  dance  ; 
They  say  that  that  crime  is  re-acted  again, 

63 


And  each  cranny  and  chink  of  the  mill  doth  wink 
With  the  light  o'  hell  or  the  lightning's  blink, 
And  a  woman's  shrieks  come  wild  through  the  rain  : 
When  the  howl  of  the  hound  comes  over  the  hill, 
That  murder  returns  to  the  rotting  mill. 


Dolce  far 
Niente 

I 


the  bay  as  our  boat  went  sailing 
->       Under  the  skies  of  Augustine, 
Far  to  the  East  lay  the  ocean  paling 

Under  the  skies  of  Augustine.  — 
There,  in  the  boat  as  we  sat  together, 
Soft  in  the  glow  of  the  turquoise  weather, 
Light  as  the  foam  or  a  seagull's  feather, 
Fair  of  form  and  of  face  serene, 
Sweet  at  my  side  I  felt  you  lean, 
As  over  the  bay  our  boat  went  sailing 

Under  the  skies  of  Augustine. 

II 

Over  the  bay  as  our  boat  went  sailing 
Under  the  skies  of  Augustine, 

Pine  and  palm,  to  the  West,  hung,  trailing 
Under  the  skies  of  Augustine.  — 

Was  it  the  wind  that  sighed  above  you  ? 

Was  it  the  wave  that  whispered  of  you  ? 

Was  it  my  soul  that  said  "  I  love  you  "  ? 

Was  it  your  heart  that  murmured  between, 

Answering,  shy  as  a  bird  unseen? 

As  over  the  bay  our  boat  went  sailing 
Under  the  skies  of  Augustine. 

64 


Ill 

Over  the  bay  as  our  boat  went  sailing 

Under  the  skies  of  Augustine, 
Gray  and  low  flew  the  heron  wailing 

Under  the  skies  of  Augustine. — 
Naught  was  spoken.     We  watched  the  simple 
Gulls  wing  past.     Your  hat's  white  wimple 
Shadowed  your  eyes.    And  your  lips,  a-dimple, 
Smiled  and  seemed  from  your  soul  to  wean 
An  inner  beauty,  an  added  sheen, 
As  over  the  bay  our  boat  went  sailing 

Under  the  skies  of  Augustine. 


IV 


Over  the  bay  as  our  boat  went  sailing 

Under  the  skies  of  Augustine, 
Red  on  the  marshes  the  day  flared,  failing 

Under  the  skies  of  Augustine. — 
Was  it  your  thought,  or  the  transitory 
Gold  of  the  West,  like  a  dreamy  story, 
Bright  on  your  brow,  that  I  read  ?  the  glory 
And  grace  of  love,  like  a  rose-crowned  queen 
Pictured  pensive  in  mind  and  mien  ? 
As  over  the  bay  our  boat  went  sailing 

Under  the  skies  of  Augustine. 


Over  the  bay  as  our  boat  went  sailing 

Under  the  skies  of  Augustine, 
Wan  on  the  waters  the  mist  lay  veiling 

Under  the  skies  of  Augustine. — 
Was  it  the  joy  that  begot  the  sorrow  ? — 
Joy  that  was  filled  with  the  dreams  that  borro\ 
Prescience  sad  of  a  far  To-morrow, — 

65 


There  in  the  Now  that  was  all  too  keen, 
That  shadowed  the  fate  that  might  intervene  ? 
As  over  the  bay  our  boat  went  sailing 
Under  the  skies  of  Augustine. 

VI 

Over  the  bay  as  our  boat  went  sailing 

Under  the  skies  of  Augustine, 
The  marsh-hen  cried  and  the  tide  was  ailing 

Under  the  skies  of  Augustine. — 
And  so  we  parted.     No  vows  were  spoken. 
No  faith  was  plighted  that  might  be  broken. 
But  deep  in  our  hearts  each  bore  a  token 
Of  life  and  of  love  and  of  all  they  mean, 
Beautiful,  thornless  and  ever  green, 
As  over  the  bay  our  boat  went  sailing 

Under  the  skies  of  Augustine. 
St.  Augustine,  Fla. 


Words 

T   CANNOT  tell  what  I  would  tell  jhee, 

What  I  would  say,  whatjjiou  should st  hear  : 
Words  of  the  soul  that  should  compell  thee, 
Words  of  the  heart  to  draw  thee  near. 

Tor  when  thou  smilest,  thou,  who  fillest 
My  life  with  joy,  and  I  would  speak, 

'T  is  then  my  lips  and  tongue  are  stillest, 
Knowing  all  language  is  too  weak. 

Look  in  my  eyes  :  read  there  confession  : 

The  truest  love  has  least  of  art  : 
Nor  needs  it  words  for  its  expression 

When  soul  speaks  soul  and  heart  speaks  heart. 

66 


Reasons 


X/'EA,  why  I  love  thee  let  my  heart  repeat  : 

I  look  upon  thy  face  and  then  divine 
How  men  could  die  for  beauty,  such  as  thine, 

Deeming  it  sweet 

To  lay  my  life  and  manhood  at  thy  feet, 
And  for  a  word,  a  glance, 
Do  deeds  of  old  romance. 

II 

Yea,  why  I  love  thee  let  my  heart  unfold  : 
I  look  into  thy  heart  and  then  I  know 
The  wondrous  poetry  of  the  long-ago, 
The  Age  of  Gold, 

That  speaks  strange  music,  that  is  old,  so  old, 
Yet  young,  as  when  't  was  born, 
With  all  the  youth  of  morn. 

Ill 

Yea,  why  I  love  thee  let  my  heart  conclude  : 

I  look  into  thy  soul  and  realize 

The  undiscovered  meaning  of  the  skies,  — 

That  long  have  wooed 
The  world  with  far  ideals  that  elude,  — 

Out  of  whose  dreams,  maybe, 

God  shapes  reality. 

Evasion 


Y  do  I  love  you,  who  have  never  given 
My  heart  encouragement  or  any  cause  ? 
Is  it  because,  as  earth  is  held  of  heaven, 

Your  soul  holds  mine  by  some  mysterious  laws  ? 

67 


Perhaps,  unseen  of  me,  within  your  eyes 
The  answer  lies,  the  answer  lies. 

II 

From  your  sweet  lips  no  word  hath  ever  fallen 
To  tell  my  heart  its  love  is  not  in  vain— 

The  bee  that  wooes  the  flow'r  hath  honey  and  pollen 
To  cheer  him  on  and  bring  him  back  again  : 

But  what  have  I,  your  other  friends  above, 
To  feed  my  love,  to  feed  my  love  ? 

Ill 

Still,  still  you  are  my  dream  and  my  desire  ; 

Your  love  is  an  allurement  and  a  dare 
Set  for  attainment,  like  a  shining  spire, 

Far,  far  above  me  in  the  starry  air  : 
And  gazing  upward,  'gainst  the  hope  of  hope, 
1  breast  the  slope,  I  breast  the  slope. 


In 

May 

I 

11 J  HEN  you  and  I  in  the  hills  went  Maying, 
*  ^      You  and  I  in  the  sweet  May  weather, 
The  birds,  that  sang  on  the  boughs  together, 
There  in  the  green  of  the  woods,  kept  saying 
All  that  my  heart  was  saying  low, 
Love,  as  glad  as  the  May's  glad  glow, — 

And  did  you  know? 
When  you  and  I  in  the  hills  went  Maying. 

II 

There  where  the  brook  on  its  rocks  went  winking, 

There  by  its  banks  where  the  May  had  led  us, 

68 


Flowers,  that  bloomed  in  the  woods  and  meadows, 
Azure  and  gold  at  our  feet,  kept  thinking 
All  that  my  soul  was  thinking  there, 
Love,  as  pure  as  the  May's  pure  air, — 

And  did  you  care  ? 
There  where  the  brook  on  its  rocks  went  winking. 

Ill 

Whatever  befalls  through  fate's  compelling, 
Should  our  paths  unite  or  our  pathways  sever, 
In  the  Mays  to  come  I  shall  feel  forever 

The  wildflowers  thinking,  the  wildbirds  telling 
The  same  fond  love  that  my  heart  then  knew, 
Love  unspeakable,  deep  and  true,— 
But  what  of  you  ? 

Whatever  befalls  through  fate's  compelling. 


Will  You 
Forget  ? 

T  N  years  to  come,  will  you  forget, 

Dear  girl,  how  often  we  have  met  ? 
And  I  have  gazed  into  your  eyes 
And  there  beheld  no  sad  regret 
To  cloud  the  gladness  of  their  skies, 
While  in  your  heart — unheard  as  yet — 
Love  slept,  oblivious  of  my  sighs? — 
In  years  to  come,  will  you  forget  ? 

Ah,  me  !     I  only  pray  that  when, 

In  other  days,  some  man  of  men 

Has  taught  those  eyes  to  laugh  and  weep 

With  joy  and  sorrow,  hearts  must  ken 

69 


When  love  awakens  in  their  deep, — 
I  only  pray  some  memory  then, 
Or  sad  or  sweet,  you  still  will  keep 
Of  me  and  love  that  might  have  been. 

Clouds  of  the 
Autumn  Night 

/CLOUDS  of  the  autumn  night, 
^^         Under  the  hunter's  moon, — 
Ghostly  and  windy  white, — 

Whither,  like  leaves  wild  strewn, 
Take  ye  your  stormy  flight  ? 

Out  of  the  west,  where  dusk, 

From  her  rich  windowsill, 
Leaned  with  a  wand  of  tusk, 

Witch-like,  and  wood  and  hill 
Phantomed  with  mist  and  musk. 

Into  the  east,  where  morn 

Sleeps  in  a  shadowy  close, 

Shut  with  a  gate  of  horn, 

'Round  which  the  dreams  she  knows 

Flutter  with  rose  and  thorn. 

Blow  from  the  west,  oh,  blow, 

Clouds  that  the  tempest  steers  ! 

And  with  your  rain  and  snow 
Bear  of  my  heart  the  tears, 

And  of  my  soul  the  woe. 

Into  the  east  then  pass, 

Clouds  that  the  night  winds  sweep  ! 
And  on  her  grave's  sear  grass, 

There  where  she  lies  asleep. 
There  let  them  fall,  alas  ! 

70 


The  Glory 
and  the  Dream 

'"PHERE  in  the  past  I  see  her  as  of  old, 
•^       Blue-eyed  and  hazel-haired,  within  a  room 
Dim  with  a  twilight  of  tenebrious  gold  ; 
Her  white  face  sensuous  as  a  delicate  bloom 
Night  opens  in  the  tropics.      Fold  on  fold 
Pale  laces  drape  her  ;  and  a  frail  perfume, 
As  of  a  moonlit  primrose  brimmed  with  rain, 
Breathes  from  her  presence,    drowsing   heart   and 
brain. 

Her  head  is  bent  ;  some  red  carnations  glow 
Deep  in  her  heavy  hair  ;  her  large  eyes  gleam  ; — 
Bright  sister  stars  of  those  twin  worlds  of  snow, 
Her    breasts,   through   which    the    veined    violets 

stream  ; — 

I  hold  her  hand  ;  her  smile  comes  sweetly  slow 
As  thoughts  of  love  that  haunt  a  poet's  dream  ; 
And  at  her  feet  once  more  I  sit  and  hear 
Wild  words  of  passion — dead  this  many  a  year. 

Snow 
and  Fire 

T"\EEP-HEARTED  roses  of  the  purple  dusk 

^^^     And  lilies  of  the  morn  ; 

And  cactus,  holding  up  a  slender  tusk 

Of  fragrance  on  a  thorn  ; 

All  heavy  flowers,  sultry  with  their  musk, 

Her  presence  puts  to  scorn. 

For  she  is  like  the  pale,  pale  snowdrop  there, 
Scentless  and  chaste  of  heart ; 
The  moonflower,  making  spiritual  the  air, 
Like  some  pure  work  of  art ; 

71 


Divine  and  holy,  exquisitely  fair, 
And  virtue's  counterpart. 

Yet  when  her  eyes  gaze  into  mine,  and  when 

Her  lips  to  mine  are  pressed,  — 

Why  are  my  veins  all  fire  then  ?  and  then 

Why  should  her  soul  suggest 

Voluptuous  perfumes,  maddening  unto  men, 

And  prurient  with  unrest  ? 

Restraint 


heart  and  love  !  what  happiness  to  sit 
^"^     And  watch  the  firelight's  varying  shade  and 

shine 
On   thy   young  face  ;  and   through   those   eyes   of 

thine  — 

As  through  glad  windows  —  mark  fair  fancies  flit 
In  sumptuous  chambers  of  thy  soul's  chaste  wit 
Like  graceful  women  :  then  to  take  in  mine 
Thy  hand,  whose  pressure  brims  my  heart's  divine 
Hushed  rapture  as  with  music  exquisite  ! 
When  I  remember  how  thy  look  and  touch 
Sway,  like  the  moon,  my  blood  with  ecstasy, 
I  dare  not  think  to  what  fierce  heaven  might  lead 
Thy  soft  embrace  ;  or  in  thy  kiss  how  much 
Sweet  hell,  —  beyond  all  help  of  me,  —  might  be, 
Where  I  were  lost,  where  I  were  lost  indeed  ! 

Why  Should 
I  Pine? 

"\1  7HY  should  I  pine?  when  there  in  Spain 

Are  eyes  to  woo,  and  not  in  vain  ; 
Dark  eyes,  and  dreamily  divine  : 
And  lips,  as  red  as  sunlit  wine  ; 

72 


Sweet  lips,  that  never  know  disdain  : 
And  hearts,  for  passion  over  fain  ; 
Fond,  trusting  hearts  that  know  no  stain 
Of  scorn  for  hearts  that  love  like  mine. 
Why  should  I  pine  ? 

Because  all  dreams  I  entertain 
Of  beauty  wear  thy  form,  Elain  ; 

And  e'en  their  lips  and  eyes  are  thine  : 
So  though  I  gladly  would  resign 
All  love,  I  love,  and  still  complain, 
"  Why  should  I  pine  ?  " 


When  Lydia 
Smiles 

"  HEN  Lydia  smiles,  I  seem  to  see 

The  walls  around  me  fade  and  flee 
And,  lo,  in  haunts  of  hart  and  hind 
I  seem  with  lovely  Rosalind, 
In  Arden  'neath  the  greenwood  tree  : 
The  day  is  drowsy  with  the  bee, 
And  one  wild  bird  flutes  dreamily, 
And  all  the  mellow  air  is  kind, 
When  Lydia  smiles. 

Ah,  me  !  what  were  this  world  to  me 
Without  her  smile  '.—What  poetry, 
What  glad  hesperian  paths  I  find 
Of  love,  that  lead  my  soul  and  mind 
To  happy  hills  of  Arcady, 

When  Lydia  smiles ! 


73 


The 
Rose 

A/'OU  have  forgot :  it  once  was  red 

With  life,  this  rose,  to  which  you  said, — 
When,  there  in  happy  days  gone  by, 
You  plucked  it,  on  my  breast  to  lie, — 
"  Sleep  there,  O  rose  !  how  sweet  a  bed 
Is  thine  ! — And,  heart,  be  comforted  ; 
For,  though  we  part  and  roses  shed 

Their  leaves  and  fade,  love  cannot  die. — " 
You  have  forgot. 

So  by  those  words  of  yours  I'm  led 

To  send  it  you  this  day  you  wed. 
Look  well  upon  it.  You,  as  I, 
Should  ask  it  now,  without  a  sigh, 

If  love  can  lie  as  it  lies  dead. — 
You  have  forgot. 

A  Ballad 

of  Sweethearts 

OUMMER  may  come,  in  sun-blonde  splendor, 
To  reap  the  harvest  that  Springtime  sows  ; 
And  Fall  lead  in  her  old  defender, 

Winter,  all  huddled  up  in  snows  : 

Ever  a-south  the  love-wind  blows 
Into  my  heart,  like  a  vane  asway 

From  face  to  face  of  the  girls  it  knows — 
But  who  is  the  fairest  it  "s  hard  to  say. 

If  Carrie  smile  or  Maud  look  tender, 

Straight  in  my  bosom  the  gladness  glows  ; 

But  scarce  at  their  side  am  I  all  surrender 

When  Gertrude  sings  where  the  garden  grows 

74 


And  my  heart  is  a  bloom,  like  the  red  rose  shows 
For  her  hand  to  gather  and  toss  away, 

Or  wear  on  her  breast,  as  her  fancy  goes — 
But  who  is  the  fairest  it  's  hard  to  say. 

Let  Laura  pass,  as  a  sapling  slender, 
Her  cheek  a  berry,  her  mouth  a  rose, — 

Or  Blanche  or  Helen, — to  each  I  render 
The  worship  due  to  the  charms  she  shows : 
But  Mary  's  a  poem  when  these  are  prose  ; 

Here  at  her  feet  my  life  I  lay  ; 
All  of  devotion  to  her  it  owes — 

But  who  is  the  fairest  it 's  hard  to  say. 

How  can  my  heart  of  my  hand  dispose  ? 

When  Ruth  and  Clara,  and  Kate  and  May, 
In  form  and  feature  no  flaw  disclose — 

But  who  is  the  fairest  it 's  hard  to  say. 


Her 

Portrait 

\\T ERE  I  an  artist,  Lydia,  I 

Would  paint  you  as  you  merit, 
Not  as  my  eyes,  but  dreams,  descry  ; 
Not  in  the  flesh,  but  spirit. 

The  canvas  I  would  paint  you  on 

Should  be  a  bit  of  heaven  ; 
My  brush,  a  sunbeam  ;  pigments,  dawn 

And  night  and  starry  even. 

Your  form  and  features  to  express, 
Likewise  your  soul's  chaste  whiteness, 

I  'd  take  the  primal  essences 
Of  darkness  and  of  brightness. 


75 


I  'd  take  pure  night  to  paint  your  hair  ; 

Stars  for  your  eyes  ;  and  morning 
To  paint  your  skin — the  rosy  air 

That  is  your  limbs'  adorning. 

To  paint  the  love-bows  of  your  lips, 

I  'd  mix,  for  colors,  kisses  ; 
And  for  your  breasts  and  finger-tips, 

Sweet  odors  and  soft  blisses. 

And  to  complete  the  picture  well, 

I  'd  temper  all  with  woman, — 
Some  tears,  some  laughter  ;  heaven  and  hell, 

To  show  you  still  are  human. 

A  Son- 
for  Yule 

I 

O  ING,  Hey,  when  the  time  rolls  round  this  way, 
**~^  And  the  bells  peal  out,  '  7 'is  Christmas  Day  ; 
The  world  is  better  then  by  half, 

For  joy,  for  joy  ; 

In  a  little  while  you  will  see  it  laugh — 
For  a  song 's  to  sing  and  a  glass  to  quaff, 

My  boy,  my  boy. 

So  here 's  to  the  man  who  never  says  nay  ! — 
Sing,  Hey,  a  song  of  Christmas-Day ! 


II 


Sing,  Ho,  when  roofs  are  white  with  snow, 
And  homes  are  hung  with  mistletoe  ; 
Old  Earth  is  not  half  bad,  I  wis— 
What  cheer  !  what  cheer  ! 
How  it  ever  seemed  sad  the  wonder  is — 

76 


With  a  gift  to  give  and  a  girl  to  kiss, 

My  dear,  my  dear. 

So  here  's  to  the  girl  who  never  says  no  ! 
Sing,  Ho,  a  song  of  the  mistletoe  ! 

Ill 

No  thing  in  the  world  to  the  heart  seems  wrong 
When  the  soul  of  a  man  walks  out  with  song  ; 
Wherever  they  go,  glad  hand  in  hand, 

And  glove  in  glove, 

The  round  of  the  land  is  rainbow-spanned, 
And  the  meaning  of  life  they  understand 

Is  love,  is  love. 

Let  the  heart  be  open,  the  soul  be  strong, 
And  life  will  be  glad  as  a  Christmas  song. 


The  Puritans 
Christmas 

'"PHEIR  only  thought  religion, 

-*•       What  Christmas  joys  had  they, 
The  stern,  staunch  Pilgrim  Fathers  who 
Knew  naught  of  holiday  ? — 

A  log-church  in  the  clearing 

'Mid  solitudes  of  snow, 
The  wild-beast  and  the  wilderness, 

And  lurking  Indian  foe. 

No  time  had  they  for  pleasure, 
Whom  God  had  put  to  school ; 

A  sermon  was  their  Christmas  cheer, 
A  psalm  their  only  Yule. 

They  deemed  it  joy  sufficient, — 
Nor  would  Christ  take  it  ill,— 

77 


That  service  to  Himself  and  God 
Employed  their  spirits  still. 

And  so  through  faith  and  prayer 

Their  powers  were  renewed, 
And  souls  made  strong  to  shape  a  World, 

And  tame  a  solitude. 

A  type  of  revolution, 

Wrought  from  an  iron  plan, 
In  the  largest  mold  of  liberty 

God  cast  the  Puritan. 

A  better  land  they  founded, 
That  Freedom  had  for  bride, 

The  shackles  of  old  despotism 
Struck  from  her  limbs  and  side. 

With  faith  within  to  guide  them, 

And  courage  to  perform, 
A  nation,  from  a  wilderness, 

They  hewed  with  their  strong  arm. 

For  liberty  to  worship, 

And  right  to  do  and  dare, 
They  faced  the  savage  and  the  storm 

With  voices  raised  in  prayer. 

For  God  it  was  who  summoned, 

And  God  it  was  who  led, 
And  God  would  not  forsake  the  love 

That  must  be  clothed  and  fed. 

Great  need  had  they  of  courage  ! 

Great  need  of  faith  had  they  ! 
And  lacking  these — how  otherwise 

For  us  had  been  this  day  ! 

73 


Spring 

(After  the  German  of  Goethe,  Faust,  II) 
"XITHEN    on    the    mountain    tops    ray-crowned 

Apollo 

Turns  his  swift  arrows,  dart  on  glittering  dart, 
Let  but  a  rock  glint  green,  the  wild  goats  follow 
Glad-grazing  shyly  on  each  sparse-grown  part. 

Rolled  into  plunging  torrents  spring  the  fountains  ; 
And  slope  and  vale  and  meadowland  grow  green  ; 
While  on  ridg'd  levels  of  a  hundred  mountains, 
Far  fleece  by  fleece,  the  woolly  flocks  convene. 

With  measured  stride,  deliberate  and  steady, 
The  scattered  cattle  seek  the  beetling  steep, 
But  shelter  for  th'  assembled  herd  is  ready 
In  many  hollows  that  the  walled  rocks  heap  : 

The  lairs  of  Pan  ;  and,  lo,  in  murmuring  places, 
In  bushy  clefts,  what  woodland  Nymphs  arouse  ! 
"Where,  full  of  yearning  for  the  azure  spaces, 
Tree,  crowding  tree,  lifts  high  its  heavy  boughs. 

Old  forests,  where  the  gnarly  oak  stands  regnant 
Bristling  with  twigs  that  still  repullulate, 
And,  swoln  with  spring,  with  sappy  sweetness  preg 
nant, 
The  maple  blushes  with  its  leafy  weight. 

And,  mother-like,  in  cirques  of  quiet  shadows, 
Milk  flows,  warm  milk,  that  keeps  all  things  alive  ; 
Fruit  is  not  far,  th'  abundance  of  the  meadows, 
And  honey  oozes  from  the  hollow  hive. 


Lines 

W 


ITHIN  the  world  of  every  man's  desire 

Three   things  have  power   to    lift  his  soul 
above, 

79 


Through  dreams,  religion,  and  ecstatic  fire, 
The  star-like  shapes  of  Beauty,  Truth,  and  Love. 

I  never  hoped  that,  this  side  far-off  Heaven, 
These  three, — whom  all  exalted  souls  pursue, — 
I  e'er  should  see  ;  until  to  me  't  was  given, 
Lady,  to  meet  the  three,  made  one,  in  you. 

When  Ships  put 
out  to  Sea 

I 

T  T  'S  "  Sweet,  good-bye,"  when  pennants  fly 

And  ships  put  out  to  sea  ; 
It 's  a  loving  kiss,  and  a  tear  or  two 
In  an  eye  of  brown  or  an  eye  of  blue  ; — 
And  you  '11  remember  me, 

Sweetheart, 
And  you  '11  remember  me. 

II 

It  's  "  Friend  or  foe?"  when  signals  blow 

And  ships  sight  ships  at  sea  ; 
It  's  clear  for  action,  and  man  the  guns, 
As  the  battle  nears  or  the  battle  runs  ; — 

And  you  '11  remember  me, 
Sweetheart, 

And  you  '11  remember  me. 

Ill 

It  's  deck  to  deck,  and  wrath  and  wreck 

When  ships  meet  ships  at  sea  ; 
It  's  scream  of  shot  and  shriek  of  shell, 
And  hull  and  turret  a  roaring  hell  ; — 
And  you  '11  remember  me, 

Sweetheart, 

And  you  '11  remember  me. 
80 


IV 


It  's  doom  and  death,  and  pause  a  breath 

When  ships  go  down  at  sea  ; 
It  's  hate  is  over  and  love  begins, 
And  war  is  cruel  whoever  wins  ; — 
And  you  '11  remember  me, 

Sweetheart, 
And  you  '11  remember  me. 


The 

"  Kentucky" 

(Battleship,  launched  March  24,  1898.) 


T  T  ERE  'S  to  her  who  bears  the  name 

Of  our  State  ; 
May  the  glory  of  her  fame 

Be  as  great ! 

In  the  battle's  dread  eclipse, 
When  she  opens  iron  lips, 
When  our  ships  confront  the  ships 

Of  the  foe, 
May  each  word  of  steel  she  utters  carry  woe  ! 

Here  's  to  her  ! 


II 


Here  's  to  her,  who,  like  a  knight 
Mailed  of  old, 

From  far  sea  to  sea  the  Right 
Shall  uphold. 

May  she  always  deal  defeat, — 

When  contending  navies  meet, 
81 


And  the  battle's  screaming  sleet 

Blinds  and  stuns, — 
With  the  red,  terrific  thunder  of  her  guns. 

Here  's  to  her  ! 

Ill 

Here  's  to  her  who  bears  the  name 

Of  our  State  ; 
May  the  glory  of  her  fame 

Be  as  great ! 

Like  a  beacon,  like  a  star, 
May  she  lead  our  squadrons  far, — 
When  the  hurricane  of  war 

Shakes  the  world, — 
With  her  pennant  in  the  vanward  broad  unfurled. 

Here  's  to  her  ! 


Quatrains 


MOTHS  AND  FIREFLIES 


O  INCE  Fancy  taught  me  in  her  school  of  spells 

I  know  her  tricks — These  are  not  moths  at  all, 
Nor  fireflies  ;  but  masking  Elfland  belles 
Whose  link-boys  torch  them  to  Titania's  ball. 

II 
AUTUMN  WILD-FLOWERS 

Like  colored  lanterns  swung  in  Elfin  towers, 
Wild  morning-glories  light  the  tangled  ways, 
And,  like  the  rosy  rockets  of  the  Fays, 
Burns  the  sloped  crimson  of  the  cardinal-flowers. 
82 


Ill 

THE  WIND  IN  THE  PINES 
When  winds  go  organing  through  the  pines 
On  hill  and  headland,  darkly  gleaming, 
Meseems  I  hear  sonorous  lines 
Of  Iliads  that  the  woods  are  dreaming. 

IV 

OPPORTUNITY 

Behold  a  hag  whom  Life  denies  a  kiss 
As  he  rides  questward  in  knighterrant-wise  ; 
Only  when  he  hath  passed  her  is  it  his 
To  know,  too  late,  the  Fairy  in  disguise. 

V 

DREAMS 

They  mock  the  present  and  they  haunt  the  past, 
And  in  the  future  there  is  naught  agleam 
With  hope,  the  soul  desires,  that  at  last 
The  heart  pursuing  does  not  find  a  dream. 

VI 

THE  STARS 

These — the  bright  symbols  of  man's  hope  and  fame, 
In  which  he  reads  his  blessing  or  his  curse — 
Are  syllables  with  which  God  speaks  His  name 
In  the  vast  utterance  of  the  universe. 

VII 

BEAUTY 

High  as  a  star,  yet  lowly  as  a  flower, 
Unknown  she  takes  her  unassuming  place 
At  Earth's  proud  masquerade — the  appointed  hour 
Strikes,  and,  behold,  the  marvel  of  her  face. 

83 


Processional 

T  J  NIVERSES  are  the  pages 

Of  that  book  whose  words  are  ages  ; 
Of  that  book  which  destiny 
Opens  in  eternity. 

There  each  syllable  expresses 
Silence  ;  there  each  thought  a  guess  is  ; 
In  whose  rhetoric's  cosmic  runes 
Roll  the  worlds  and  swarming  moons. 

There  the  systems,  we  call  solar, 
Equatorial  and  polar, 
Write  their  lines  of  rushing  light 
On  the  awful  leaves  of  night. 

There  the  comets,  vast  and  streaming, 
Punctuate  the  heavens'  gleaming 
Scroll  ;  and  suns,  gigantic,  shine, 
Periods  to  each  starry  line. 

There,  initials  huge,  the  Lion 
Looms  and  measureless  Orion  ; 
And,  as  'neath  a  chapter  done, 
Burns  the  Great-Bear's  colophon. 

Constellated,  hieroglyphic, 
Numbering  each  page  terrific, 
Fiery  on  the  nebular  black, 
Flames  the  hurling  zodiac. 

In  that  book,  o'er  which  Chaldean 
Wisdom  pored  and  many  an  eon 
Of  philosophy  long  dead, 
This  is  all  that  man  has  read  : — 

84 


He  has  read  how  good  and  evil, — 
In  creation's  wild  upheaval, — 
Warred  ;  while  God  wrought  terrible 
At  foundations  red  of  Hell. 

He  has  read  of  man  and  woman  ; 
Laws  and  gods,  both  beast  and  human  ; 
Thrones  of  hate  and  creeds  of  lust, 
Vanished  now  and  turned  to  dust. 

Arts  and  manners  that  have  crumbled  ; 
Cities  buried  ;  empires  tumbled  : 
Time  but  breathed  on  them  its  breath  ; 
Earth  is  builded  of  their  death. 

These  but  lived  their  little  hour, 
Filled  with  pride  and  pomp  and  power 
What  availed  them  all  at  last  ? 
We  shall  pass  as  they  have  past. 

Still  the  human  heart  will  dream  on 
Love,  part  angel  and  part  demon  ; 
Yet,  I  question,  what  secures 
Our  belief  that  aught  endures? 

In  that  book,  o'er  which  Chaldean 
Wisdom  pored  and  many  an  eon 
Of  philosophy  long  dead, 
This  is  all  that  man  has  read. 


O      THf 

UNIVERSITY 

or 


ITY 


85 


OTHER  BOOKS  OF  VERSE  BY  MADISON 
CAWEIN 

Days  and  Dreams Cloth,  gilt  top,  $1.00 

Moods  and  Memories. ..       "  i.oo 

Red  Leaves  and  Roses. .       "  "            i.oo 
Poems    of    Nature    and 

Love "  "            LOO 

Intimations  of  the  Beau 
tiful  ..                          ...       "  "            LOO 


PUBLISHED  BY 

G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS, 
27  &  29  West  Twenty-third  Street,  New  York,  N.  Y 


Sent  by  mail,  postpaid,  to  any  address  on  receipt  of 
price. 


SOME  NOTICES  OF  MR.  CAWEIN'S 
VERSES 

"I  should  like  to  praise  the  poetry  of  Madison 
Cawein,  of  Kentucky,  which  is  as  remote  as  Greece 
from  the  actual  everyday  life  of  his  region  ;  as  re 
mote  from  it  as  the  poetry  of  Keats  was  from  the 
England  of  his  day,  and  which  is  yet  so  richly, 
so  passionately  true  to  the  presence  and  essence  of 
nature  as  she  can  be  known  only  in  the  Southern 
West.  I  named  Keats  with  no  purpose  of  likening 
this  young  poet  to  him,  but  since  he  is  named  it 
is  impossible  not  to  recognize  that  they  are  of 
the  same  Hellenic  race  ;  full  of  like  rapture  in  sky 
and  field  and  stream,  and  of  a  like  sensitive  re 
luctance  from  whatever  chills  the  joy  of  sense 
in  youth,  in  love,  in  melancholy.  I  know  Mr. 
Cawein  has  faults,  and  very  probably  he  knows  it, 
too  ;  his  delight  in  color  sometimes  plunges  him 
into  mere  paint ;  his  wish  to  follow  a  subtle  thought 
or  emotion  sometimes  lures  him  into  empty  dusks ; 
his  devotion  to  nature  sometimes  contents  him  with 
solitudes  bereft  of  the  human  interest  by  which 
alone  the  landscape  lives.  But  he  is,  to  my  think 
ing,  a  most  genuine  poet,  and  one  of  these  few 
Americans,  who,  even  in  their  over-refinement, 
could  never  be  mistaken  for  Europeans ;  who  per 
haps  by  reason  of  it  are  only  the  more  American." 
— WILLIAM  DEAN  HOWELLS  in  Literature. 


"  From  the  poetry  of  our  day  I  select  that  of 
Madison  Cawein  as  an  example  of  conspicuous 
merit.  Many  American  readers  have  enjoyed  Mr. 
Cawein's  productions.  .  .  .  But  the  appre 
ciation  of  his  poetry  has  never  been  as  great  as  its 
merits  would  indicate.  His  poems  are  rather  too 
good  to  be  caught  up  on  the  babbling  tongue  and 
cast  forth  into  mere  popularity.  They  are  caviare 
to  the  general ;  and  yet  they  have  in  them  the  best 
elements  of  popular  favor. 

"Cawein  is  a  classicist.  He  will  have  it  that 
poems,  however  humble  the  theme,  however  tender 
the  sentiment,  shall  wear  a  tasteful  Attic  dress.  I 
do  not  intimate  that  Mr.  Cawein's  mind  has  been 
too  much  saturated  with  the  classical  spirit  or  that 
his  native  instincts  have  been  supplanted  with 
Greek  exotics  and  flowers  out  of  the  renaissance, 
but  rather  that  his  own  mental  constitution  is  of 
a  classical  as  well  as  a  romantic  mould.  .  .  . 

"The  themes  of  Cawein's  poetry  are  generally 
taken  from  the  world  of  romance.  If  there  be  any 
modern  bard  who  can  recreate  a  mediaeval  castle 
and  give  to  its  inhabitants  the  sentiments  which 
were  theirs  in  the  twelfth  century,  Cawein  is  the 
poet  who  can.  He  takes  delight  in  the  East.  He 
is  the  Omar  Khayyam  of  the  Ohio  Valley.  He  is 
as  much  of  a  Mohammedan  as  a  Christian.  He 
knows  the  son  of  Abdallah  better  than  he  knows 
Cromwell ;  and  has  more  sympathy  with  a  Khalif 
than  with  a  Colonel.  He  dwells  in  the  romantic 
regions  of  life  ;  but  the  romance  is  real.  The  hope 
is  a  true  hope.  The  dream  is  a  true  dream.  The 
picture  is  a  painting,  and  not  a  chromo.  The  love 
is  a  passion,  and  not  a  dilettante  episode.  Cawein's 
art  is  a  genuine  art.  His  verse  is  exquisite.  Out 
of  the  three  hundred  and  thirteen  poems  in  the  five 
3 


volumes  under  consideration  there  may  be  found 
hardly  a  false  or  broken  harmony.  .  .  ." — JOHN 
CLARK  RIDPATH,  LL.D.,  in  The  Arena. 

"The  rattlesnake-weed  and  the  bluet-bloom 
were  unknown  to  Herrick  and  to  Wordsworth,  but 
such  art  as  Mr.  Cawein's  makes  them  at  home 
in  English  poetry.  There  is  passion,  too,  and 
thought  in  his  equipment.  .  .  ." — WILLIAM 
ARCHER  in  the  Pall  Mall  Magazine. 

"I  find  in  the  best  pieces  an  intoxicating sense 
of  beauty,  a  richness,  that  is  rarely  achieved"  al- 
though  every  young  poet  nowadays  strives  after  it. 
I  find,  too,  a  daring  use  of  language  which  some 
times,  nay  often,  conducts  to  genuine  and  startling 
felicities."— EDMUND  GOSSE. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA   LIBRARY 
BERKELEY 

THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST   DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 

Books  not  returned  on  time  are  subject  to  a  fine  of 
50c  per  volume  after  the  third  day  overdue,  increasing 
to  $1.00  per  volume  after  the  sixth  day.  Books  not  in 
demand  may  be  renewed  if  application  is  made  before 
expiration  of  loan  period. 


MAY  I*  * 


17 


25    1932 


rorn?  me 


Feb.   9*14, 


MAY 


n.M  25 


-ray1- 


4^"ber-  .     -FEE US  M14 


>  £ 


•yvw- 


A    LIBRARY 


YC160584 


